If You Were the Hunter
by Kryptaria
Summary: The story of If You Were Mine and If You Were with Me on the Bridge continues. Forced to separate, John and Sherlock work towards the same goal: to uncover John's mysterious enemy so they can be together again.
1. Chapter 1

**Saturday, 13 Mar 2010**

In John's life, three in the morning had never been a time for restful sleep. He had clients who stayed until two or three some mornings. He'd killed people in the quiet time between two and four a.m., when the thin desert air turned chill. He'd had his hands wrist-deep in bloody organs, pinching at spurting arteries and screaming into the night for help saving just one more life. And even when he did manage to fall asleep at a normal hour for most people, he was likely to be wrenched back awake by the claws of a nightmare at three a.m.

At three a.m. on this particular night, as John let himself into his flat for the first time in a week, his senses were sharp and alive, flooding his mind with reports: _Danger. Intrusion. Invasion._

He left the door open and leaned the crutch against the wall, freeing his right hand to draw the SIG pressed against his abdomen. His right boot skidded as he crushed a thin white envelope underfoot. The flat was cold, the still air thick with the stink of the rubbish bag near the door. Every light in the flat was on.

Ignoring the envelope, he moved as steadily as he could, each step of his right leg punctuated with agony from his knee. The hinged brace was locked almost straight, forcing his gait to be even stiffer than it normally was with the cane.

He swept the apartment, checking everywhere large enough to hide even a small intruder. He looked under the desk and shoved the loveseat away from the wall, opened the pantry, looked behind the shower curtain. In the bedroom, he checked the closet and curtains before he lowered himself awkwardly onto the bed and bent over to look upside-down beneath the box spring.

No one was there.

But someone had been.

Christ, he should have expected this. He huffed in irritation and got awkwardly off the mattress, hobbling along the foot of the bed. He braced himself against the corner post as he shoved the SIG back into the holster with a sharp click.

He went back into the living room and used the wall to help him slide down, right leg stuck awkwardly out, so he could reach the envelope. He tucked it into his sling and levered himself back upright with the help of his crutch.

The envelope contained a short note from the building manager, Stuart. _Copper came by, said there was a call from your flat, didn't find nothing, You can call if there's something wrong, name of Lastrad,_ it read.

"Didn't find nothing," John murmured as he licked his dry lips.

Lestrade. Sherlock's contact at the yard — presumably his friend.

He glanced at the plate over the light switch by the door, the electrical outlet a few feet away, and the light fixture overhead. He thought about visual and audio pickups that needed electricity and concealment. His territory had been violated — not once, when he'd been taken, but twice, apparently by Detective Inspector Lestrade.

Sherlock had been here as well, _that night_, but that didn't feel like a violation.

He bent and picked up the rubbish bag with his right hand. The bag was light, nothing more than the remains of his dinner with Sherlock from Sunday night, so he transferred it to his left hand and hobbled out to the rubbish chute in the hallway. He wished he knew his neighbors well enough to ask if they'd seen anything unusual, but his hours had prevented him from seeing more than a handful of people in the lift, usually going the other way.

After returning to his flat, he closed and locked the door, not that he expected the locks to keep anyone out. He considered searching for surveillance devices, but if he found them, what would he actually do? Disabling them would be seen as a provocation. Better to leave them there (if they were) and hope to come up with some brilliant misinformation to feed his enemy.

So he did a cursory search of the flat, pretending he was in a spy movie, running his hand under the edges of furniture and peering behind the drapes. He tried to put on a good show of things, but by the time the search brought him through his bedroom and into the bathroom, he was too tired to continue the charade.

Ten minutes later, the apartment was dark, save the bedside light. The SIG was tucked away in the mattress holster concealed between the bed and the cardboard bedside table, a round chambered and ready to fire. He slid the notebook between the mattress and boxspring next to the holster. He'd recorded every text he thought he accurately remembered, but it was a pitiful page and a half, and he was certain he'd got some of those wrong.

He turned off the light and got under the covers, realizing only then that he hadn't changed the sheets. After he and Sherlock had got out of bed on Monday morning, he'd adjusted the pillows and covered the bed with the duvet, but hadn't stripped the sheets for a wash. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about having Sherlock in his bed for the first and last time, but for once, his soldier's habits failed him.

He was still awake to watch the glow of sunlight under the living room door.

* * *

"Oi, mate! Spare a quid for a vet?"

"Please, just need a tenner to get home."

"I got what you need."

Sherlock kept walking, eyes flicking over the homeless lined up against the underpass like dolls for sale. They were gathered into little camps, seeking safety and warmth in numbers. The established ones had constructed windbreaks of tarps and scavenged plywood; a few even had laundry lines to hang their old, tattered clothes. All the comforts of home.

In his Belstaff coat and cashmere scarf and four-hundred-pound shoes, Sherlock didn't belong here. But the thugs didn't follow him and the most of the whores guessed he wasn't interested in them, and if a couple of dealers called out greetings to him by name, well, that was understandable but in his past, at least for now. John would want him to try and do this cleanly; cocaine was a last resort.

Finally, he heard the call, "Change? Any change?"

He veered toward the underpass wall, where a young man, no more than fifteen, was sprawled atop a makeshift bed of shipping pallets. Sherlock could see a scar snaking down the inside of his wrist where it stuck out beyond the too-short sleeve of his jacket: the mark of a suicide attempt, not six months old. Good try, too. It would have required stitches. He was new to the streets and bright enough to have been picked up by one of Sherlock's other agents.

"What for?" Sherlock asked quietly as he walked over.

The boy sat up, revealing battered Converse trainers that had once been bright red. "Cuppa tea, mate," he said hopefully, completing the password exchange.

Sherlock leaned down; to an observer, it would look like they were negotiating, probably for sex; the boy was too fresh to the streets to be working for a dealer. He made his living as a prostitute. Under the cover of his coat, Sherlock passed over a slip of paper.

Intently, Sherlock watched the boy's eyes as he scanned the page. He was actually reading the writing, not just pretending or skimming, which was the last confirmation Sherlock needed. The boy was one of his.

"Yessir," he said, shoving the paper into a pocket.

Sherlock handed over two fifty-pound notes, turned, and walked quickly away. He'd wasted enough time already. If he was going to get John back, he had work to do.

* * *

**Sunday, 14 Mar 2010**

_Stick to a routine,_ John told himself, feeling horribly exposed as he carefully made his way down the street to the café. Between lack of sleep and the Paracodol he'd taken, his head was fogged. He tried to look for surveillance, but he knew better than to expect anyone lurking furtively in a doorway, collar turned up, hiding behind a newspaper or dark sunglasses. Or, more to the point, everyone had taken cover from the chilly wind and the bright sun that cut through the unusually cloudless sky. At least yesterday's rain had cleared up. Between his crutch and his sling, John couldn't manage an umbrella.

Automatically, his gaze swept the café for familiar faces, but it was nearly empty save for a young couple at a back table near the electrical outlet. Their laptops were out, warring for table-space with two coffee mugs and a plate of crumbs. Their feet touched under the table, though they weren't holding hands or looking at one another.

Surveillance or students? Either was a possibility. He was tempted to write them off as students, judging by the way they had stretched frugal orders of coffee and dessert so they could keep their table, but it was very possible that they were part of a long-term observation team. He was known to frequent this café, even if he hadn't visited here for the last three weeks. They could be using their laptops to take notes or send messages.

A familiar girl was at the till. Her eyes lit up in recognition, and then went wide as her gaze tracked down, stuttering at the sling that held his splinted left wrist to his chest, locking onto the aluminum crutch propped under his right arm.

She tore her gaze from John and turned in the direction of the kitchen. "Oi! Jim!" she shouted, and John couldn't deny a pang of nervousness. Exactly one week ago — _one week!_ — he'd made a date with Jim and then stood him up to meet Sherlock at the morgue.

God, he missed Sherlock. He desperately wanted to send him a text asking if he was all right. Had the bastard who'd attacked John done anything to Sherlock?

Jim came out of the kitchen, shouting back, "Becky! You didn't touch my espresso — _God, John!_" His cheerful grin turned to a look of concerned horror, and he all but flew around the counter. The couple at the back table glanced up as he passed, before turning to their laptops. John wondered if that was suspicious or if they were just caught up in their work.

"Hi, Jim," John said guiltily.

"John, are you — Here, sit down, away from the door," he said, fussing and reaching for John before jerking his hands back. His warm, sleepy brown eyes were wide and he was worrying his bottom lip between his teeth in a way that John found very distracting.

He allowed Jim to lead him to one of the tables. Deliberately, he took a seat with his back to the wall, where he could see the back table and the door. A glance at the front windows didn't tell him anything useful, but if a surveillance team was out there in that mess, they were probably freezing to death, which was fine by him.

Before John could ask for food, Jim rushed away through the kitchen door. John sighed and glanced at the clerk, Becky, who gave him a silly sort of smile. Before he could decide if he should get up and order, Jim backed out of the kitchen, bumping the swinging door open with one hip.

"Becky, take these." He handed over two small plates, one with a steaming crock, the other with a jacket potato. As soon as Becky rescued him, he went right for the gleaming stainless espresso machine.

Grinning now, Becky carried John's un-ordered meal to his table. "Don't tell him I said so, but he might've missed you a tad," she said in a not-quite whisper.

"_Becky!"_ Jim protested over the hiss of steam.

She gave John a cheeky wink and sang out, "On my way!" as she sauntered back to her post.

Obviously, Jim wasn't angry. A week earlier, John had been all set to go out on a first date with Jim, to have _that talk_ with him, and hopefully to start a relationship that could last. Sherlock hadn't even been a consideration, with his self-destructive tendencies and lack of anything like discretion or even manners. And then it had all got turned around. In less than a day, Sherlock had entirely captivated John's interest — only to have it all crash and burn, and not by their choice.

John tried to push his emotions aside and focus solely on what needed to be done. Even without proof, he had to assume he'd be under surveillance. Dating someone else, after only a week, would prove that John had moved past Sherlock. Anything resembling an outside relationship would help defray suspicion.

He wouldn't put Jim at risk, but would there _be_ a risk? He was supposed to stay away from Sherlock. As long as he openly complied, the bastard who'd kidnapped him would have no reason to keep him under surveillance.

John could be very patient. He would watch and learn who was watching him, and he would do nothing to make them suspicious. No finding bugs or losing tails or anything to show that he was even aware that he was being watched. He'd date and see his friends and go to the pub, and when he was back in top form, he'd return to work, all as if last Monday had never happened. He would outwait his enemy, and use that time to learn everything he could, and eventually, if he was very, very lucky, he would be in a position to act.

By the time John had made his decision, Jim was back at the table, two hands cradling a huge cup that was almost overflowing with foam, whipped cream, and chocolate shavings. He set it down and stared at John, clearly at a loss for words.

"Sorry I stood you up," John said sincerely.

With only a quick glance at the counter, Jim sat down in the chair beside him. "What happened? Are you all right?"

Trying his best to sound reassuring, John said, "I'll be fine."

Jim nodded, his gaze following the same path that Becky's had, taking in the scope of John's injuries. He went back to biting his lip. "I thought —" He pressed his lips tight and shook his head before giving John a nervous little laugh. "So what happened?"

"Ex-boyfriend's jealous stalker," John said tersely. It was _almost_ true, or as true as anything that could describe last week's insanity, at least in less than a thousand words.

"God," Jim breathed, very tentatively reaching for John's right hand.

When John didn't move away, Jim's fingertips barely touched. His hand felt nothing like Sherlock's, but that was... good. Grounding, in a way. John reassessed his decision to come here and decided he'd done the right thing.

Jim took a deep breath and said sharply, "I hope you killed the bastard."

Startled by Jim's sudden ferocity, John honestly said, "Not yet." As soon as it was out, though, he winced and shook his head, wondering how not to come off as psychotic.

But Jim's hand pressed to his, fingers curling around in a tight clasp, and his sleepy eyes had gone serious. He stopped biting his lip long enough to say, "Good. I don't like seeing you hurt."

"Not really my thing," John agreed with a smile. "Look, I'm not exactly in a place for a relationship right now, what with everything that's happened. And I have no right to ask you —"

Yes." Now Jim was smiling, and the sharp look was gone from his eyes.

"Sorry?"

"The answer's yes. I'm off at five, so maybe seven, if that's all right?"

Slowly, John laughed, turning his hand palm-up so he could take hold of Jim's. "You don't hang out in morgues, do you? Poke around crime scenes?"

Jim gave a baffled blink. "God, no. I don't like getting my hands dirty like that."

"Seven, tonight? That Mediterranean restaurant you'd suggested," John proposed as he reached for his mobile. "I'll give you my number so you can text the name."

* * *

"I need a security team at Fylla Elias tonight," Jim told Moran as soon as he answered the phone. Café employees weren't supposed to be in the manager's office, but Jim's arrangements with the owner gave him certain liberties. He kicked the door closed and crossed the little room to the desk.

"Christ, nothing like last-minute planning. You don't need me. You need a secretary."

"Just this morning, you made it clear you want more contract work."

"Not enough to eat your bloody rabbit food."

"_You_ can't be onsite," Jim warned, sitting down in the creaky, uncomfortable chair. "Watson's going to be there with me."

The silence that followed was profound.

Jim sighed, swiveling the chair with a grating, rusty sound. "He came into the café. You didn't exactly specify the extent of his injuries," he added darkly.

"I'm not the expert on breaking into NHS computer systems — not that there are any official records. You want me to get in touch with Corporal Murray? I knew him from the FOB. It wouldn't be all that suspicious."

"No." Jim leaned back and squinted up into the fluorescent lights overhead. "Tomorrow, I want you to do another check, see if they have any records on me."

"Got it. And for tonight, just your rabbit-food restaurant, or is this _date_ continuing elsewhere? You shouldn't go to Watson's flat — it's definitely bugged."

Jim went cold. "Give me a minute," he said, putting the phone on mute.

Very few people knew his name; more to the point, very few _criminals_ knew his name, and even fewer knew how to get in touch with him. Instead, he worked through layers of intermediaries or kept all communications electronic and encrypted.

Soon after Watson had moved to the neighborhood, Jim had taken the job at the café, for multiple reasons. This particular café was part of a co-op that directly imported green coffee beans from all over the world, and Jim could always use another smuggling channel. While Jim didn't actually need a legal income, it was always good to have a cover story verified by people outside the organization. It also offered Jim an easy, innocent way to meet and observe John, to assess his potential value to Jim's organization. The fact that he really liked coffee was just a bonus.

But the whole point of this was to _avoid_ official notice. Going out on a date with John might just end up with Jim's name on Mycroft Holmes' desk. On that basis, Jim should quit the café and disappear.

Then again, Mycroft _hadn't_ killed Watson. And Jim wanted to know why.

He picked up the mobile and switched off mute. "Just get the team to the restaurant. Our _date_ is at seven. Full security, inside and out."

"You paying to have me on overwatch?" Moran asked bluntly.

_Greedy bastard,_ Jim thought, but he really was the best. "Yes. If you see anything, don't act unless there's a definite threat."

"Don't worry. I won't wreck your date."

* * *

Sherlock lost himself in the music, trying not to allow the temptation of mathematical precision to turn his playing mechanical and dispassionate. Instead, he focused on John — how he'd loved the first movement of this piece and has looked forward to hearing the entire composition. But inevitably, the thought of the mission ahead distracted Sherlock, and he lost the elusive musical picture he was attempting to create. Each time he succumbed, he set down the bow and scribed a few more notes on the sheet music to help find his balance once more.

"Oh, Sherlock, that's lovely," Mrs. Hudson said gently.

Normally, any interruption to his composition would be met with a snarl and a sharp word, but things had changed at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson stood by the kitchen doorway, her dark blue dress covered by an apron. Her hands were wrapped in a towel around two stacked plates, the top plate covering the bottom one as though to keep it warm.

"Thank you." He put down the violin and shoved the pencil into a pocket of his dressing gown.

"I'm glad you're composing, dear. It's so nice to hear."

He wouldn't explain the composition, not around Mycroft's listening devices (one hidden in the damaged wallpaper where he'd embedded a sword, another under a loose floorboard, a third in the overhead electrical box for the light). Sherlock had left those, though he'd pointedly disabled the video pickups.

He kissed Mrs. Hudson's cheek and took the plates, still wrapped in the towel. He carried them to the kitchen, where he set the bundle down and uncovered the contents.

Instead of dinner, there were two BlackBerry mobiles with charging cords. "Smells delicious," he said for the benefit of the mics.

"I'd best go check on dessert. I expect you to come downstairs for some," she said sternly.

He looked at her and saw she was worried. He'd explained the situation to her in detail. She was his closest ally in this, the one person no one would suspect — the one person he could trust completely.

Gently, he gave her another kiss on the cheek and said, "Half an hour."

"Half an hour," she agreed, and left, taking the kitchen towel.

Careful to keep out of direct view of the windows, Sherlock brought the phones to his desk, where he plugged them both in to let them charge. He checked each mobile and committed the numbers to memory before programming only those numbers into each phone's address book. He verified that texting was enabled, wiped the history, and sent a single text from one to the other.

He'd have to go out later tonight, tomorrow at the latest. He needed a secure line of communication. For now, though, he left both phones to charge and went to sit in the kitchen. In a half hour, he'd go downstairs and see what Mrs. Hudson made for dessert.

* * *

The silver Vauxhall Corsa slowed but didn't stop as John's taxi dropped him at the restaurant. It might be a tail, or it might an unrelated car. It had followed him for seven blocks, taking over after a black Ford had followed John's taxi for nine blocks. He noted both in the Moleskine book he carried in his sling. With his left hand out of commission, his handwriting was nearly illegible, but the army had taught him to write down everything, no matter how insignificant.

After the taxi dropped him off, John limped into the small, narrow restaurant, set between a clothing shop and a dentist's office. There were a few booths up front near a takeaway counter, and small round tables in the back. For a small restaurant on a Sunday night, it seemed to be doing brisk business, which was a good sign. He had no idea what the restaurant's name, Fylla Elias, meant. The idea of vegan cuisine wasn't exactly appealing either, but he figured he'd scraped the bottom of the barrel with army food. Anything had to be better.

He didn't immediately see Jim until he made it down the corridor and into the back dining room. Jim was there, tucked into a corner out of sight of the front door, which was a relief. Anyone wanting to keep watch would have to actually come in, giving John the chance to memorize faces.

Jim rose, and John couldn't help but stare. He'd only ever seen Jim in his café uniform of black shirt and black jeans. Now, he wore a sleek navy suit with a matching tie over a dove grey button-down. He looked five years older and very, very enticing.

"Wow. Look at you," Jim said, before John could even say hello. "That's a great suit. McQueen?"

"I... have no idea," John admitted a bit sheepishly, glancing down at himself. The suit was pinstripe, charcoal and silver, and he'd paired it with a black button-down shirt that had white buttons. Worn without a tie, it looked a little less silly than a lighter shirt, since knotting a tie was beyond his capability until the splint was off. As it was, he'd had to resort to an electric shaver and slip-on dress shoes. He'd been tempted to wear his boots — they had laces but also zipped up the sides, making it easy for him to put them on — but he could just imagine Irene's reaction if she found out he'd paired a suit with army boots. _American_ army boots, at that.

"Sorry. Hobby of mine." Grinning, Jim offered his hand. "Hi."

John clasped his hand with a little laugh. "The only thing I really know about clothing is how to identify a home nation by the camo patterns. But you look fantastic, if you don't mind me saying. I hope you haven't been waiting long."

"Not at all." They sat down and Jim added, a bit more softly, "Well, okay, a bit, but only because I got here early."

John picked up the menu on his plate, though he didn't look at it. "We're both here now. Let's get ordering out of the way before the staff chase us out. Then you can tell me everything there is to know about you."

"Oh, but I'm boring," Jim protested. His cheeks went pink and he avoided John's eyes, focusing instead on the menu.

"If you think that, then you're also wrong," John said gently, turning his attention to the menu. "So, what's good here?"

Eventually they ordered, after Jim insisted he wouldn't take offense if John ordered the lamb. John gave in, though he compromised on an appropriately vegan appetizer. The waiter grinned through the whole discussion, and was still grinning when he brought over two glasses of wine.

Once they were settled with a plate of pita bread and hummus, Jim leaned forward, quietly saying, "I promise, whatever it is, I won't hate you."

Startled, John asked, "Sorry? What?"

"You just look like you're trying to figure out how to tell me something. I promise, whatever it is, it's fine."

"Am I that obvious?" John asked with a laugh.

"I'm good at reading people." Jim slid a hand across the table in silent invitation.

"First... I meant what I said earlier. I'm really not looking for a relationship — something long-term, I mean," John explained.

Jim's smile never faltered as he shook his head. "Neither am I. I don't do relationships. Too busy with the rest of my life." Then he laughed and added, "And I meant what I said earlier. No mad stalker exes in my past." He twitched his fingers again, beckoning for John to take his hand.

Tempted as he was, John held back, thinking of how to start this conversation. Honestly, he'd thought about it ever since he started working for Irene, but there was no good way.

_Best just say it,_ he thought, taking a deep breath. He looked steadily across the table to meet Jim's eyes. "I'm a dom. A dominant," he explained.

A flush rose in Jim's cheeks and he looked away, but only for a moment. He bit his lip again. "I thought so. I mean, I could tell —"

"Professionally."

Jim sat back as though startled. He smoothed down his tie and looked distantly past John. "Oh," he said softly.

John had expected some level of rejection, but he wasn't about to apologize for what he did — or what he would go back to doing, once he didn't need the splint for his wrist or the knee brace. "I always —" he began at the same time Jim said, "That's brilliant."

They stared at each other.

"You mean that?" John asked, before shaking his head. "You _do_ mean it."

Jim smiled at him and started to pull his hand back before he resolutely reached toward John again. "I do."

With a soft, amazed laugh, John took his hand. "So... you're not... I don't know, upset? It's not too odd?"

"God, no. I mean, if it's what you _want_ to do, it's great."

He sounded sincere. John ventured another smile and said, "It is. I never even considered it, but... it's actually pretty amazing."

* * *

_Finally,_ Jim saw a potential hook to get the discussion on track. All John had to do was bring up his work with Irene and mention who recommended him to her. Then, they could move on to _relevant_ negotiations.

He watched as his agents, the duo seated behind John, paid their bill and left. He lowered his other hand from his tie, glad he didn't have to repeat his signal for them to give him privacy. He was willing to discuss a lot in front of his security teams, but not _this_.

In the very public café, where their roles were defined as customer and employee, John had been friendly, kind, and definitely interested. In private, Jim discovered he was surprisingly the same, which meant he was either a better actor than Jim had suspected or this was the real John Watson. Jim had to remind himself not to stare as he tried to decipher the truth, because he could hardly believe that this man — this... _nice man_ — had somehow managed to make an enemy of Mycroft Holmes and survive an encounter with his government thugs.

Hell, John might even prove to be _too_ nice for Jim's purposes. Traces of John's military service clung to him in his haircut and the way he carried himself, but if Jim hadn't seen his service record, he wouldn't believe John had ever even seen a gun, much less killed people. He'd even gone so far as to ask if Jim would be offended if he ordered the lamb.

Smiling in approval, he looked back at John. "You get to do something you love. Not many people have that chance in life. But how did you start?"

"I can't even remember," John said, momentarily baffling Jim. How could John not remember? He'd been working with Adler for... what, two months? Then John explained, "It's just how I've been, all my life," and Jim realized he was talking about his sexuality, not his job.

Wondering how to get the conversation back on track, Jim tried to stall, asking, "What do you mean?"

To Jim's frustration, John let go of his hand and tore off a strip of the pita bread before he asked, "Remember those games you used to play as a kid? Spies and secret societies and such?"

Resentment twisted through Jim, sharp and sudden. He remembered _watching,_ but never playing. He'd always been on the outside — or, worse, the target of the popular kids, as John must have been. "Sure," he said as mildly as he could.

Sitting across from the popular, charismatic man, so self-controlled and dangerous and yet still so _innocent,_ Jim realized he could quickly learn to hate John.

Or to envy him — if not something worse.

Unaware of Jim's inner thoughts, John continued to shred the pita bread into smaller strips. Jim realized that _John_ was uncomfortable about this. Quietly, John said, "God, it... It sounds so deviant, but I didn't actually _do_ anything — not at first, anyway."

Taking refuge in the excellent food that he couldn't taste at all, Jim worked through one of the pieces of warm bread, fussing with the hummus to keep from looking into John's dark blue eyes. "You sound like you're about to confess to a murder or something," he finally said, his tone much more flatly neutral than he would've liked.

John's answering laugh was shaky. "No, not quite that. Not even close. I mean, it was all innocent. My parents never had _the talk_ with me, and they wouldn't have at that age, anyway. It's just... sometimes, you... you _feel_ things." He looked across the table at Jim, looking so uncertain — so _vulnerable_ — that Jim's resentment was lost by the sudden urge to reassure him, to offer a comforting hand or an understanding word.

What the _hell_ was wrong with him?

"It was all innocent," John repeated, "but something about it just felt right, when I'd take someone down — catch the bad guy, whatever." He laughed nervously, finally dropping the scraps of bread onto his plate. "Don't even get me started on when I'd tie my friends to a tree or fence or something."

"They didn't think you were —"

Jim caught himself, wondering what the fuck he was doing, not just losing control of the conversation but nearly going into the darkness of his own childhood as though seeking common ground, because there _wasn't any_. From the first time he'd laid eyes on John Watson, he'd known that John had been the popular boy, friends with everyone, dating any girl he wanted, probably able to fuck any boy he wanted without getting labeled or stigmatized for it. And he was just bloody _nice_ enough that he wouldn't have picked on the unpopular ones, the freaks, and the outcasts. He would've chosen them for his football team or his science project, because someone like John thought the world should play fair, even though everyone knew it _wasn't_.

Despite the calluses and scars, John's hands felt incredibly soft and warm as they surrounded Jim's fingers, pressing just lightly enough to get his attention. "Jim?" he asked worriedly. "I'm sorry. Forget I said anything."

Pulling the tattered edges of his constructed persona back into place, Jim shook his head. _Find common ground,_ he told himself, remembering the basics, at least, of how to manipulate people. "No, it's... it was like that for me, too, only I was always the bad guy who got caught," he lied.

Fucking hell, a psychiatrist would have a field day with the two of them.

* * *

Sherlock left his flat at exactly eleven, Belstaff coat wrapped tight over a worn fleece bomber jacket bought secondhand years ago. He had a knitted cap stuffed in one pocket, and he'd borrowed Mrs. Hudson's white merino wool scarf.

He walked to the Tube station where he knew Aura spent the night when it wasn't too rainy. She was there, as predicted, with her cart of black rubbish bags holding her worldly treasures. A quick glance reassured Sherlock that there were no new surveillance cameras and no pedestrians watching him.

In two quick moves, he had the coat off and bundled down among the rubbish bags. He passed her a hundred quid in small bills and pulled on the cap without a word. Hunching down, he threw the scarf around his neck and jogged back up the stairs to the sidewalk, his steps light and quick. It wouldn't fool anyone for long, but he only needed a few minutes' distraction.

It was too bad he couldn't use Aura for this, but she'd lost a foot to diabetes years earlier and could barely hobble. She made contact with the rest of his network once a week, twice at most. He needed someone younger and cleaner — the boy he'd contacted yesterday would do, though his overpass was a bit far to travel tonight, if he didn't want to be missed. He had an hour, two at the most before Mycroft's surveillance teams got itchy.

He didn't encounter the boy before he spotted a likely candidate, a young blond woman, pretty enough to be a target, wary enough to show she knew her way around the street. Knife up one sleeve, money kept in three small bundles — left shoe, left sleeve, right coat collar. Sherlock approached her, saying, "Need any change?"

"Love a cuppa tea," she answered, eyes flaring with sudden hope.

He pulled off the cap and swiftly closed the distance between them, leaning a hand on the wall over her shoulder. His posture was deliberately threatening, but the young woman didn't flinch or go for the knife, which was the last confirmation he needed; she was one of his. "I need you to make a delivery," he said quietly.

"Happy to oblige, sir." She leaned back against the wall so she could look up into his face, though the dim light in the alley left them both mostly in shadow.

He took the phone from one pocket. He'd wrapped the charging cord around it and taped it in place. "The man you're looking for is named John Watson. He'll be using a crutch, probably aluminum, on the right side. His left arm is in a sling — blue canvas. You'll have to wait near his flat. You need to slip this phone to him without him noticing — a pocket or a shopping bag would be ideal."

"Easy 'nuff, sir." She took the phone and tucked it safely inside the layers of her coats.

"He's some distance away, so you'll need to take the Tube. Is that a problem?" Some of his network of informants and agents had legal difficulties, and the stations were heavily patrolled, at least in some areas.

"Not at all."

Sherlock had marked John's flat, the café where he ate, the two local grocery stores, his usual pub, his place of work, and Irene Adler's house on a map. He passed it to her, along with a printed photo of John, taken by one of his network. Finally, he handed her the last of his cash. "This should cover you for a few days. If you can't get the mobile to him by this time next week, you know how to find me."

"Knock down the rubbish bin at that café Chatterjee owns. Right, sir?"

"Perfect." He tugged the cap back on and left the alley with a quick nod. He wanted to get his coat back before Aura forgot and wandered off with it.

* * *

There was something sinful about driving a Maserati down a pitch black country lane two hours outside London. The top was down despite the damp, cold night air. Jim needed the chill to clear his head, to focus on something other than John Watson, because he was two minutes away from either fucking him or ordering him killed, and neither was currently an option.

This was why he didn't date. Ever. He found partners who appealed to whatever kink he wanted to indulge, and then got rid of them. They _never_ got under his skin.

When the mobile rang, he thumbed the steering wheel button and barked, "What?" His voice was probably lost under the rush of wind but he didn't give a damn.

"Your teams are having fits. It's not nice to ditch your own security, Jim. Makes their trigger fingers itch," Moran scolded.

"Let them fucking kill each other."

"That's all the excuse I need to handle your staffing issues and hire some real professionals." Jim could barely hear Moran's chuckle over the roar of the engine. "You need anything, or should I just keep listening to the police scanner for reports of a luxury fireball, no survivors?"

Jim snarled, pressing the accelerator even harder, pushing his reflexes almost to the breaking point. The road had long ago given up its gentle, traffic-friendly curves for sharper turns edged with railings and trees that would ensure the fatality if he crashed.

"No," Jim finally said, before changing his mind. "Yes. Everything on Watson. School records, medical history, fucking Facebook screenshots, for all I care."

"Got it." After a moment, Moran continued, "If you're going to order a hit on him, we may need to have words, Jim."

With another snarl, Jim disconnected the call. Then he took one hand off the wheel, nearly losing control until he backed off the accelerator just a hair. He found his mobile and punched the power button until it shut down. Then he threw it in the back seat and went back to courting death, firmly telling himself to stop thinking of John Watson as _his_.

* * *

**Monday, 15 Mar 2010**

"And the Olympic security briefing is on schedule for Wednesday."

Mycroft sighed, glancing at his screen to verify the appointment was properly entered into his calendar. He was triple-booked on Wednesday, but that was nothing new. Honestly, he couldn't remember the last time he'd been so lucky as to be _double-_booked.

"Anything else?"

"Not official, sir."

The note in his aide's voice caught his attention. "Oh?" he asked with some trepidation, wondering what his brother was up to this time.

"Operation TALENT, sir."

It wasn't quite relief that passed through him — not at the mention of _that_ distasteful issue — but at least he wouldn't have to bail Sherlock out of custody again. "Go on."

"File update, sir." Her fingers flew over the keyboard of her laptop, and a moment later, Mycroft's email alerted him to a new priority message.

The message was blank, except for the attached pictures. The first was a grainy black and white still image taken from CCTV footage, judging by the sharp angle. Despite the poor image quality, he recognized John Watson, codename TAU, at once. "Still using that crutch, I see. How long?"

"Estimate is another three weeks, sir."

"Do alert the surveillance team. Who's that with him?" he asked, focusing his attention on the other man. He was the same height as TAU and seemed a bit more slender, though it was hard to tell with both of them in suits and coats against the torrential rain.

"The photo intel team is having difficulty resolving the image, but the surveillance team 'suspects'" — she let out a huff at the lack of certainty — "that he's from the café by TAU's residence. Shall I task them with searching the café's records, sir?"

"Do. Was this a business meeting?"

"A date, sir, as evinced by the last image," she said delicately.

Curious, he scrolled to the last image. All four were CCTV stills, all four of abominable quality, but even still, there was no mistaking the way the two men kissed in the last image.

"Hmm..." Mycroft leaned back in his chair, fingertips pressed together. "Designate with a codename for now."

"Sir," she acknowledged, and retrieved her BlackBerry, dialing quickly.

A date could be a significant sign that TAU had understood Mycroft's message to him... or that kiss could be a ruse to throw off any watchers. There was no way of knowing if TAU was aware of the surveillance. But if TAU was dating, it could mean his interest in Sherlock had waned — or, more likely, that he'd made the sensible decision and had turned his sights on some other unsuspecting victim. Well, if he had, it was the Met's problem, not Mycroft's.

"I need a codeword... Thank you." Disconnecting the call, she looked back at Mycroft. "Unknown subject is designated ROOK, sir."

"Very well. Unless otherwise notified, let's end Operation TALENT on the..." He opened his calendar, considering the difficulty of keeping a very expensive surveillance operation active and unnoticed in the heart of London. "The twelfth of next month, yes."

"That includes Easter weekend, sir. The overtime expense will be substantial."

"Hmm... You're right," Mycroft said reluctantly. He could bury a lot in his budget, but he already used most of his slack keeping Sherlock out of trouble. "Make it Thursday, April first."

"Yes, sir. Anything else?"

"That will do, thank you."

* * *

UPDATE LOG OPERATION TALENT / REV 1.041

SAIC: SANDEKI, M / RECORDING AGENT: TAYLOR, R. A.

Identity Subject ROOK confirmed.  
Moriarty, James NMN (DOB 21101976, IE DUBLIN / DOD N/A / NHS 943 476 5919)

FILE UPDATED 03152010/1109  
RECORD SAVED


	2. Chapter 2

**Thursday, 18 March 2010**

Sherlock was accustomed to being followed. Criminals and Mycroft were the most common suspects, but this particular time caused Sherlock no concern. Turning his face away from the gusting wind, he caught his tail's eye and immediately turned off the path to duck between two buildings.

The air went still, except for the rain sheeting down. The smell of wet trash was no more appealing than dry, though at least it was still cold enough that the contents of the rubbish bins hadn't had the opportunity to bake.

The boy followed Sherlock a minute later, wide eyes darting around in a manner that was more paranoid than simply cautious. His behavior was markedly altered since just a few days earlier. He was dirtier, too, and smoking a cigarette with his hand cupped cautiously around it to keep it dry, though the heat had to be uncomfortable against his palm. He was still in his layers of coats, but his shoes were splattered with mud and his jeans were newly torn at the right knee.

"What's happened?" Sherlock asked sharply. The boy hadn't been in a fight, but he'd been living rough — not at the underpass where Sherlock had found him.

"Sorry. I can't" — he took a deep draw of smoke, gaze never settling on Sherlock as he checked both ends of the alley and then looked up — "Can't do this anymore, mate."

Looking _up?_ Sherlock resisted the impulse to do the same, wondering what threat could possibly be overhead. Surely the boy wasn't expecting snipers or particularly vicious dive-bombing pigeons.

"I'll need more detail," Sherlock asked instead.

The boy exhaled a shaky breath punctuated with little puffs of smoke. "Did just like you said. Followed that bloke, John. He went to some restaurant Sunday night," he said, holding out a menu that was stained and crumpled as if it had been fished out of a rubbish bin.

Sherlock took it, hunching over to protect it from further rain damage. Fylla Elias — Mediterranean. He hadn't seen their menu in John's drawer. "Who was he with?"

"Didn't see."

Sherlock frowned. "Why not?"

The boy pitched the cigarette against the wall and shoved his hands in his pocket, shoulders rounded defensively. "Didn't feel right, okay? These blokes in the front of the place — John went in back, maybe to more tables or an office or something. The blokes out front gave me a bad feeling, all three of them. So I hung around, figured maybe they'd leave and I could get in, maybe try to use the loo, only they stuck around. Then this other couple comes out, and the woman, she was carrying a gun."

"How do you know?"

"When she slung her purse, it hitched up her jacket, and I was — I mean, she was walking away, and I saw it back here." The boy reached around and tapped the small of his back, over the layers of jackets. "She weren't no copper, either."

Three men who gave a rentboy a bad feeling, and a couple, at least one of whom was carrying a concealed firearm. _Security,_ Sherlock thought — and they wouldn't be working for John, not with that lack of professionalism.

"Anyway, mate, I'm —"

"Why do you keep looking up?"

The boy wrenched his gaze back down from his survey of the skyline. "I — It's — It sounds crazy —"

"Just tell me," Sherlock interrupted, failing to keep the sharpness from his tone.

Flinching, the boy said, "Coulda sworn I saw someone outside the restaurant. Up on the roof, across the street. Watching."

"Watching. Did he have a camera? Did you see a lens?"

After a moment, the boy shook his head. "I didn't see nothing too clear. Look, I don't... I don't like this. I got a bad feeling, y'know?"

_No,_ Sherlock thought in frustration. "Why are you only now reporting this?"

"'Cause!" he snapped unhelpfully, and fumbled another cigarette out of a pack taken from his jacket pocket. Sherlock had to resist the urge to snatch at them. "You didn't see them. The three blokes inside — one of them came out for a smoke, and spotted me. I got out, only I thought I seen him a couple more times. Not taking no chances."

Sherlock resisted a growl of frustration. "So you've been hiding for _four days_."

"One of my mates, Sherry — she said she seen the same type of blokes hanging around John's place."

Could they be working for John? Was the danger so great that he'd hired common thugs for protection? Were they meant to be bait, set out in hopes of provoking a confrontation? Or were they working for John's enemy? They sounded dangerous, but definitely not clever, if the boy had been able to so quickly identify them. If this was the best John's enemies could come up with, Sherlock would be able to wrap this up more quickly than anticipated.

Still, he did need more information, but the nondescript members of his homeless network, while infinitely useful in their ability to go anywhere, were untrained, unprofessional, and lamentably subject to fear.

He needed to stay in the good graces of his network, so he fished in his pocket for what little cash he could spare. He was almost completely out of cash, unless he wanted to go to Mycroft, which would inevitably end up costing him more in time spent on some tedious government business. He handed over a ten pound note. A flicker of disappointment crossed the boy's face.

"Get me something useful, and there's a great deal more," Sherlock told him.

The boy flinched and made the tenner disappear into his jeans pocket. "Sorry, mate. I just — I just can't. You'll have to find someone else," he said, and hurried towards the far end of the alley, glancing up at the roofline every few steps.

* * *

It was dangerous for John to develop any sort of routine, but there were only so many neighborhood places that would tolerate him sitting around for more than an hour. His flat was no longer a place of refuge, though, and he needed to get out — to _do something,_ even if all he did was phone his old mates.

He waited until nine in the morning, late enough that most people were already at their offices but too early for the lunch crowd. Jim wasn't behind the counter, to John's disappointment. At the register, he charmed Lauren into agreeing to bring his meal to him and took a table by the back, rather than his usual seat by the window, conscious of his sight-lines. More than once, his military team had acted on intelligence sourced from long-distance photographs zoomed in to show the text on printed pages. Since he couldn't trust his laptop's security and couldn't afford to buy a new one — not while he was out of work for a month — he needed to record everything in print.

Last week, after he'd lost all of the text messages he'd exchanged with Sherlock, Kate had given John a small black notebook to record the few messages he remembered. In a moment of wishful thinking, he left a few blank pages after those messages, though he doubted he'd recall any more of them. Then he started a new list, printing each name as carefully as he could, right-handed.

Bill Murray's name went at the top, followed by an M to indicate that he was married. If at all possible, John wanted to stay clear of anyone with a spouse or children, though his choices were limited. He'd never missed his old mates quite so much, not even in those early, bleak days when he thought civilian life would break him.

Next came Allen Wright, a spotter who'd worked with John's team more than once. There'd been a fuss with military intelligence when he'd put the pictures up on his website. He'd ended up being found not guilty of any impropriety, but the damage was already done. He'd ended his term of service without re-enlisting.

John had met Shawn Mitchell in Riyadh on his first tour. Their paths had crossed a dozen times, ending when an IED went off ten feet to Mitchell's right. As the closest medic, John had been the one to get him stabilized and evacced. Mitchell had survived, though the explosion had left him deaf in his right ear. They'd exchanged a couple of letters since, though not since John had returned to London.

After Lauren delivered John's sandwich and coffee, he wrote down Roy Vanterpool's name. Vanterpool had grown up in the worst part of London, escaping the streets through a jail-or-enlist offer from the cop who'd arrested him for the fifth time in a row. Vanterpool had stayed in touch with the cop, too. John remembered spending a day off with Vanterpool in Laskar Gah looking for dolls, of all things, to send back home as a gift for the cop's newborn daughter. The police connection could be dangerous, but Vanterpool had connections that none of the other men did.

It wasn't until he was halfway through the sandwich that he remembered the one name that might be more important than all the rest combined. He'd been so caught up in thinking of soldiers who'd left active duty that he'd forgot those who were stationed here, at home. He dusted crumbs off his fingers, picked up his pen, and wrote, beneath Vanterpool's name, four letters: Gott.

* * *

_The things I do,_ Jim thought, teasing gel-covered fingers through his hair. More than half of his disguise was attitude rather than cosmetics, but he still had to take some care with his appearance. His target, Sofi Magnusson, liked her men in their twenties, not thirties. He swiped a towel over the fogged mirror to check his reflection. Good enough.

A career diplomat, Sofi Magnusson was just weeks from being moved to work directly under the current Swedish Permanent Representative to the UN. She was uniquely poised to provide Jim with useful information, just as soon as he hooked her. He was hoping he didn't have to go the blackmail angle, but after last night, he had more than enough material to embarrass not only Sofi and her husband, who was back in Sweden, unaware of his wife's appreciation of younger men, but also the diplomatic staff of the Embassy of Sweden in London.

Jim knew that she had lovers in quite a few cities scattered along her usual touring route, but he'd taken special effort to ensure that her favorite was one Richard Brook, aspiring actor. The job explained Jim's odd hours as well as his occasional disappearances from London. Brook had been an easy persona to create, one requiring little more than some papers, a CV, and a couple of YouTube videos.

He went out into the bedroom, smiling with false cheer as he watched Sofi tuck her blouse into the waistband of her skirt. "You look lovely."

"You take longer in front of the mirror than I do, Richard," she scolded, holding out her hands to him. Her nails were professionally short and manicured, drawing attention to her subtly expensive rings.

"Not everyone was born as pretty as you, Sofi," he teased, his voice high and light. He took her hands and drew her into a kiss, careful not to muss her white-blond hair. Her hair was her nicest feature — well, that and her voice. Really, she would've been better off in the arts. With a little training, she probably could've sung opera.

Jim's phone buzzed a text alert, ending the kiss. "Excuse me — that might be my agent," he said hopefully.

"Ooh, go on, then. Check it," Sofi cooed, leaning closer to the mirror to adjust the knot on her scarf.

Jim turned his back and paced away, hiding his mobile as he checked the text.

_ur bf is here. come pick up ur paychek or i might steal him. xoxo lauren_

_John,_ he thought, feeling a twist in his stomach that had nothing to do with his co-worker's abuse of the English language. He typed out a quick response and pocketed the mobile before he turned back to Sofi. She pulled on her blazer and stepped back to examine her full reflection. For fifty-two, she really did keep herself in very good shape.

"Good news?" she asked, meeting Jim's eyes in the mirror.

"Audition. I'm sorry, love. I've got to dash," he apologized, going back to press a kiss to her cheek. In her heels, she was two inches taller than him.

"Good luck," she said, giving him a warm smile.

He considered correcting her to 'break a leg', but didn't feel like getting caught up in a language debate. Instead, he thanked her, promised to find time for one more date before she flew back to Sweden, and escaped the hotel room where he'd spent the night.

He checked his email while waiting on the lift. No crises, thankfully, and nothing that required his immediate attention, which meant he could go see John. He refused to acknowledge the excitement that followed that thought; he wasn't a lovesick teenager.

* * *

"Hello?" The woman sounded breathless, and John hoped like hell that he wasn't interrupting anything embarrassing.

"Hello, John Watson calling for Bill Murray," he said, looking up as he heard footsteps. Lauren came out from behind the pastry counter, holding a carafe of coffee. John nodded gratefully, pushing his empty cup to the edge of the table.

"Watson — _Captain_ Watson?" she asked. For one horrifying moment, John thought she knew him professionally. He wondered if he'd misdialed a client instead of Bill.

"Well, yes —"

"Oh, my god! Bill's told me so much about you. He said you're back in London."

Relieved, John gave Lauren a grateful smile and silently mouthed, _Thank you,_ to her. "Yes, been back for a couple of months now."

"We'll have you to dinner. Don't try to refuse — I've been dealing with you army boys for long enough."

Then Bill came on an extension, saying, "Now you've done it, Captain. Once Susie's got an idea in her head —"

"Bill," she protested with a laugh. "I'll leave you two to talk. Captain, you have till the end of the month before I'm forced to take steps," Susie said, followed by the click as she hung up.

"Sorry about that," Bill apologized. "I can talk to her, but she's been asking to meet you for an age."

John had no desire to do anything social, but maintaining a normal life would help his 'moving on with life' act. "I'd be glad for a meal I didn't have to cook for myself," he relented gracefully.

Bill didn't try to hide his relieved sigh. "Thanks, sir." John heard some noise in the background — sounded like a door closing — before Bill said, more softly, "You didn't call just to get ambushed by my wife."

"I didn't," John agreed, switching the mobile to his left hand. He only needed the sling to keep from banging his wrist into anything, so he'd taken it off to rest his elbow and shoulder. With his free right hand, he picked up the coffee mug, eyes fixed on the café door. "You've been back for a while, Bill. Have you been in touch with any of the guys?"

"From — Well, yeah," Bill said uncertainly. "You haven't?"

"Not exactly," John admitted guiltily. "Between the hospital and all that... I kept to myself for a while."

"Uh huh. And now you want to socialize?"

"Murray," John said sharply. "I need some contact info. Will you help?"

"God. Yeah, okay, shoot."

"Wright, Mitchell, Vanterpool, and Gottlieb."

Bill went silent, except for what sounded like typing. "That's one hell of a reunion, Captain."

"Do you have their info?"

"Yes. But I want in."

"You're married, Murray. You don't want to get involved."

"Christ," Bill muttered. He read off the phone numbers without another comment.

"Know anyone else who might..." John hesitated, wondering how to explain his needs. "Anyone who's good with security? Maybe someone who got lured away by SIS?"

"Colonel Moran, for one," Bill said immediately.

"Yeah, I heard. I was hoping for someone a little less in the public eye."

"Ah." Bill went quiet again. "Remember Torres, that pilot out of Camp Bastion?"

"Keith Torres?" John put his mug down and picked up the pen to write down his name.

"I worked with him for about a year and a half. I could introduce you."

"I don't want you involved any more —"

"With all due respect, sir, fuck that," Bill said bluntly. "Whatever shit you're caught up in, I want to help."

"How much will Susie appreciate that?" John snapped.

"Susie loves me because I _won't_ abandon a friend, even a pain-in-the-arse officer like you."

John closed his eyes, leaning back in his seat. More than anyone else, he trusted Bill. But it went against everything inside him to possibly involve an innocent outsider, be it an ex-sister-in-law or civilian wives. Then again, he didn't have any right to involve his old mates, or to call Gott, the way he planned as soon as he hung up with Bill.

He tried to consider Bill's position, but the only person he could imagine being with him in a relationship like that was Sherlock, and he'd probably want to be right in the thick of it with John. Then again, John hoped like hell that Bill's wife wasn't even a tenth as insane as Sherlock.

"All right," he finally said tensely. "Set up a meet."

"As your attending physician, should I mention that you shouldn't be up and walking around, or will you just tell me to bugger off?" Bill asked dryly.

"Bugger off," John answered, grinning.

"Thought so. I'll see when he's available. I don't think he's married, but that just means his weekends are probably booked."

"Right. Hey, do me a favor, Bill."

"Anything, sir."

"Apologize to your wife for me. Tell her I didn't have enough time to train you properly for her."

"I'll let you tell her that yourself," Bill said, laughing, before he rang off.

John put the mobile down and returned to his coffee, looking at the last two names on his list. A competition-level marksman and an RAF combat pilot. It felt like he was back in the desert, working with the other officers to plan an op, only this one had far more civilian consequences.

* * *

For the first time, Sherlock wondered if Molly was disappointed that her job seemed to focus more on paperwork than actual scientific examination. He checked the morgue, the cold-storage walk-in, and even the biohazard incineration room before thinking to look in her office, where he found her bent over her keyboard, concentrating intently on her typing.

"Molly."

She let out a startled squeak and shoved her chair away from the desk. One of the wheels was stuck, scraping loudly over the linoleum tiles. "Sherlock!"

"I need to speak with you."

"Okay." She lifted her hands to the keyboard as though tempted to continue typing, but then pressed three keys and hit enter to bring up her screensaver. "What —"

"Not here," he interrupted. Mycroft knew that he spent a great deal of time at the Barts morgue, and there was a small chance that he'd had surveillance devices installed. Normally, Sherlock wouldn't care, but he was certain that Mycroft, if he found out what Sherlock was intending, would do everything in his power to stop Sherlock.

"Um, okay..." Uncertainly, she rose and asked, "Cafeteria?"

"Let's go out," he said, and watched her eyes go wide in surprise. "There's a good pub nearby, isn't there?"

"Um," she repeated dazedly. Sherlock had to take her coat from the hook by the door in order to get her moving. She let him help her into it, saying, "Okay, I guess I can take an early lunch. I've been here since half six. I've got three student groups coming in tomorrow for their first autopsies. Always fun, that. We have a betting pool on who's going to pass out first. Bet you'd guess them all right."

"Perhaps I'll stop by to watch," he offered, and was rewarded with another startled blink. He smiled in response and asked her a few trivial questions about the next day's class, keeping her from saying anything indiscreet until they were out in the rain. It was too windy for her to use her umbrella, so she tucked in her ponytail and turned up her collar, hurrying along beside Sherlock.

Ten minutes later, they were at the pub, where Sherlock ordered pints for them both and a shepherd's pie for Molly, who was shivering and blowing on her hands. She'd left without her gloves, forgetful as usual when she went into work early.

"This is nice. I never really go out, these days. Not during the day. Sometimes on weekends, my girlfriends and I go out to clubs, but I'm usually too tired," she said, nervously countering Sherlock's silence with chatter. She finally caught herself and sipped at her beer to cover her embarrassment.

Sherlock didn't bother touching his; he'd ordered it to blend in, not because he particularly enjoyed it. He waited patiently for Molly to start on her food and took advantage of the silence to ask, "How would you like to have dinner with me tonight?"

Molly almost dropped her fork, making Sherlock wonder if he'd broken some little-known rule of etiquette. He didn't exactly have experience in this sort of thing, but it was a perfectly reasonable, simple question.

"Molly?" he prompted.

"But you're —" she began, and then snapped her mouth shut, her eyes going even wider. "Aren't you — I — But what about — I —"

Her stammering was actually painful to watch. Sherlock finally cut her off, saying, "Tonight. You can stop by Angelo's on your way to my flat."

"To — to _your_ flat?"

"Yes. The address is on my website. Angelo's isn't far. You'll enjoy the ravioli."

Molly stared at him, looking... _concerned,_ before she turned deliberately away. He studied her, noting her lack of cosmetics and the way her rain-wet hair lay flat and unattractive against her scalp. She hadn't excused herself to go to the ladies' and touch up her appearance, though normally she wouldn't last five minutes in the morgue with Sherlock before she was going to put on lipstick or mascara. Was it the location? Was she counting on the dimly lit pub to enhance her appearance? Or in her rush this morning, had she neglected to pack cosmetics and a brush in her purse? Unlikely.

So what had changed?

"Sherlock, I — It's very... nice of you to ask," she began, before trailing off into silence. She wasn't looking up at him, which was unusual.

She wasn't blushing. She should have been, but she wasn't.

"You don't —" he began, before he cut himself off before he could commit the infinitely juvenile sin of finishing that sentence with something abhorrent, such as 'like me anymore'. He didn't _think_ she'd met someone else, but... perhaps he was reading her incorrectly? Much as it galled him, he asked, "Have you met someone else?"

"No!" The answer came too quickly and emphatically for it to be anything but truth. Now she was blushing, though she deliberately stabbed at her shepherd's pie to distract Sherlock's attention.

The attempt failed. Fascinated, he studied her face as he asked, "Then what is it?"

The blush turned a shade darker. "Sherlock, you're — I mean, I know. And it's okay. Really, it is. I should have known, but, well... it seems the ones I like are always married or gay."

It was his turn to stare, speechless, because while he obviously wasn't married, he certainly wasn't —

Well, it wasn't as if he had never been called gay. Any man with decent bone structure, educated speech patterns, and a fashion sense that didn't begin and end at Primark was likely to be called gay. Sherlock had never cared. In truth, given a choice, he'd rather have a man make a pass at him. Men tended to take no for an answer. But that made him practical, not gay.

But there was also John.

He was tempted to follow that thought, but sitting in a pub that was going to get crowded with the lunch rush in another hour or so was hardly the place for any sort of deep thinking, so he pushed the curiosity aside for later consideration. Usually, he would flirt with Molly to get what he wanted, but since she seemed to have decided he was gay, apparently that option was off the table.

Fortunately, John had shown him that there were other options. He looked directly at her, waiting until she made eye contact. "Please, Molly. It would mean a lot to me. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade are both so busy..."

Her expression softened and her usual hesitant smile reappeared. "Oh. Okay, Sherlock. But it's not... I mean, it's all right. I know it's not a date."

That had worked better than he'd expected. Perhaps John was right — being nice could pay off, even though it seemed a terrible waste of time. Relieved she'd said yes, Sherlock got out his mobile and sent a quick text to Angelo.

* * *

Jim's "Richard Brook" disguise wasn't too far from the persona he'd constructed to work as a barista, so he went straight to the café without stopping at one of his safehouses to change. The side benefit was that the rain helped tame the effects of the hair gel, though it was far from pleasant to slick his wet hair back with his bare hand.

John's usual window seat was empty; Jim felt a twinge of disappointment that he refused to acknowledge. For a moment, he was tempted to turn around and call for a pickup, but it was raining and the café was warm and dry. Besides, picking up his meagre paycheck was an amusing thought, as if he needed a couple hundred quid.

At first, he didn't spot John in the far back corner. Lauren's smirk tipped him off, prompting him to glance around. John was on his mobile, but he caught Jim's eye and smiled invitingly. Jim accepted, looking John over as he crossed the café. The crutch rested against the wall nearby and he'd removed the sling, though his wrist was still splinted. Jeans, military boots, a truly awful button-down shirt that needed to be put out of its misery... He shouldn't have looked so damned attractive.

"Easter Sunday would be fantastic, love," John said into his mobile as he used his pen to point at the empty seat at his table. "Can we use, ah, your equipment?"

As John listened to the answer, he mouthed a silent hello at Jim, who smiled in response, hiding his curiosity about the conversation. Jim's first thought was that John was discussing work. The other night, John had said he was off work for at least a month so he could heal, but Easter Sunday was right around the end of that month.

A quick look showed John was writing names and phone numbers in a small Moleskine notebook. Jim memorized the names — Murray, Wright, Mitchell, Vanterpool, Torres, and Gottlieb — and the phone numbers, all of them in the UK. He didn't immediately understand the notations beside Murray (M) and Torres (6), but he was confident he'd eventually figure it out.

"If you can get some, I'm happy to pay." John gave Jim a quick, apologetic smile. Jim could barely hear a female voice respond before John laughed and said, "Yes, that includes dinner. But I've got to run. I owe you, got."

"Got?" Jim couldn't help but ask as John ended the call. John's answering laugh was tinged with embarrassment; Jim wondered if he was going to lie.

"With two T's. Short for Gottlieb. She's an old army friend."

Truth, Jim decided, seeing no hint of dissembling. John was so _honest,_ dealing with him was almost disorienting. "I suppose you're still close with a lot of them," Jim prompted.

John closed the notebook, not bothering with the elastic strap, and set it aside. "Some, yes. Most of them are still deployed," he added more quietly, his smile fading.

_He misses it,_ Jim thought, filing that knowledge away as something he could use. It actually wasn't surprising; look at how poorly Moran was responding to civilian life.

With a quick shake of his head, John smiled once more and asked, "What are you doing here? Is it your day off?"

"Payday," he explained dismissively, neglecting to mention Lauren's text. "I don't work again till Saturday."

John smiled. "Then I'll stop by on Saturday."

* * *

Downstairs, Sherlock heard a light knock, followed by Mrs. Hudson calling out, "Hello, dear! Oh, let me take that. Chilly tonight, isn't it?" all drowning out Molly's softer answers. He smiled to himself and sat up, arching his back to crack his spine. He didn't dare make any written notes that an enemy could find, and had been forced to memorize everything. The process was arduous and left him with a slight headache that required coffee.

He crossed to the kitchen, peeling off the now-dead nicotine patch before he snatched another from the box on the counter. He'd resolved to limit himself to one patch at a time except in emergencies. John would understand.

By the time he'd set up the coffee pot, Molly had let herself in. She hung her coat and scarf. Her hair was dry; she'd left her umbrella downstairs. When she met Sherlock's eyes, she smiled and picked up the plastic takeaway bag at her feet. _Angelo's_ was scrawled across the side of the bag in red cursive.

"Did you get my text, Sherlock? We had an exsanguination earlier. I got you some tissue samples. They're in the cooler at the morgue, if you want to come by tomorrow."

"We're safe. I swept for bugs earlier," he assured her.

She let out a relieved sigh and sank into one of the kitchen chairs. "I don't know how spies do it. I was terrified the whole way back." She started unpacking the takeaway — ravioli for her, lasagna for him. A white waxed paper bag held garlic bread, and the clear lid of a plastic container showed a salad.

There was one more foam box in the takeaway bag. A small X was drawn on one corner. Sherlock pounced on that box, saying, "This is good. Perfect." He opened the box, though the weight alone was enough to verify the contents: scattered paper packets of garlic powder and red pepper flakes, salt and pepper, a loaded pistol, a second full clip, and two containers of grated parmesan. The 9mm subcompact pistol was absurdly small for Sherlock's hands, but it was the best option for concealment. Remembering to check the safety first, Sherlock hid it in one pocket of his trousers. He tucked the spare magazine into the other.

As he dumped the condiments onto the table, he met Molly's eyes. She flicked a glance down at his pocket and bit her lip, wisely staying silent.

He tried to remember if he'd told her the real reason for picking up dinner at Angelo's, but if he had, he'd deleted it. "Parmesan?" he asked instead, offering her one of the containers.

* * *

As soon as Jim answered the phone, Moran demanded, "What the fuck are you up to, Jim?"

"Do you _want_ me to mail you your own eyes?" Jim barked. He took a deep breath and rubbed at his neck. "Watch your tone, Moran."

Moran was silent for almost a full minute before he asked, somewhat more politely, "Why did you ask me to look into _my own fucking soldiers?_"

Jim closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath, stretching his neck to relax the building tension. He should've realized the connection — Moran as Watson's commanding officer, therefore most likely familiar with Watson's military friends — but he'd been unforgivably distracted.

More calmly, he answered, "Because that's what John Watson is doing — making contact with them, apparently. It could be important, if he's planning something. Who are they?"

"Vanterpool and Mitchell are recon. Wright's a spotter, with some sniper training. They're all out, now."

"Any good?"

"They were mine," Moran answered in a low growl.

Jim let that pass. "The others? Gottlieb and Torres?"

"The only female 'Gottlieb' I could find is Rebecca Gottlieb, a marksmanship instructor, still active duty. She and Watson were stationed together for training."

"They apparently have plans for Easter Sunday. I want surveillance on them."

Moran grunted affirmatively. "Torres, there are a few possibilities. Richard Torres, EOD, still active duty. Carl Torres, American, with ARRC. Keith Torres, 16 Air Assault Brigade, currently at SIS."

"What's ARRC?"

"Allied Rapid Reaction Corps. It's NATO."

"Not that one," Jim dismissed. "The other two..."

"Explosives disposal or a combat pilot. Is Watson planning something big?"

"I don't know," he admitted, frustrated. "The one with SIS —"

"Keith Torres."

"What can you get me on him? I need to know if he's in bed with Holmes or just gets his paycheck from the same boss."

"I'll do what I can, but I may not have the clearance."

"Shit." Jim paused thoughtfully. "Don't take any unnecessary risks — not yet."

"If that 'not yet' becomes 'now', you'd better have a damned good fucking exit strategy planned for me, Jim."

"Don't fuck this up and I'll make you rich."

"Rich doesn't help if I'm dead," Moran said, before he hung up.

* * *

John's right thumb cramped as he pushed the last round out of the magazine, but he forced himself to start loading them again, eyes closed. It had been years since he'd struggled like this, long enough that he'd forgotten just how difficult it was to build coordination. He could shoot right-handed well enough, but everything else — loading a magazine, drawing from a concealed carry — was a challenge.

Visualizing where the SIG rested on his desk, he picked it up, again with his right hand, and tried to push the magazine home with his splinted left hand. The magazine crashed into the butt of the pistol, and he nearly dropped both. He opened his eyes and saw he was almost an inch off his target.

His mobile saved him from the temptation of throwing the magazine across the room. He put the SIG and magazine down on his desk, remembering how Sherlock had noticed the telltale traces of oil. Reminding himself to stay focussed, he answered the call, "Hello?"

"John. It's Bill," Murray said cheerily.

"Bill," John said, puzzled. He glanced at his laptop to check the time: just past nine. "I didn't expect to hear back from you this soon."

"Yeah, well, I heard back from some of the guys. Vanterpool's free tomorrow night, if you want to meet up at a pub."

John grinned; perhaps his luck was changing after all. Reminding himself to be conscious of listening devices, he asked, "It's not quiz night, is it? I'm rubbish at trivia."

Bill laughed. "Just drinks, I promise. Mitchell might be available, too."

"Anyone else I know coming?"

"Wright's up in Russia somewhere, photographing polar bears."

"Polar bears?"

"Hell if I know, mate. Something about an island where they did nuke testing back in the seventies."

"Radioactive polar bears. Fantastic." John shook his head, thinking Allen Wright might be a little too crazy even for John's purposes. He picked up a pen and opened his notebook, saying, "Just say where and when."

Murray gave the name and address of his local. "How's seven sound?"

"Perfect. See you then."


	3. Chapter 3

**Friday, 19 March 2010**

John arrived at the bar early, wanting to avoid the Friday night crush, only to find Bill Murray waving him over to a booth. Beside Bill was a small, curvy blond woman with glasses. She smiled and watched John with open curiosity as he made his careful way through the tables.

Pushing down the irritation — he'd _specifically_ told Bill that he wanted to keep civilians out of this — John extended his hand to the woman. "Hello. You must be Susan."

"Call me Susie, please." She shook his hand, looking at him appreciatively. "Why don't you get John a pint, love?"

A fond smile creased Bill's young, tanned face. "Sure, babe. Anything special?" he asked John, who shook his head.

Once Bill was gone, Susie said, "Please don't be upset. He told me you wanted to keep this private. I insisted on meeting you, even for a minute."

At least Bill had made the effort. "It really is nice to meet you," John told her honestly. In some ways, he knew his men better than their own families did, but only in some ways. He'd never questioned it while on duty, but here and now it seemed strange that he knew Bill's blood type and allergies and how he grieved, but had no idea if he had siblings or where he'd gone to school or if he'd played football or rugby.

Some of his thoughts must have shown on his face. Susie's left hand covered John's right for a moment. "Bill and I have talked about this a lot since..." Her gaze flicked down to John's sling and splinted wrist. "He needs to do this — to help you."

"Susie, I was his" — he faltered, suddenly unsure if she knew his past with Bill — "his commanding officer, but not anymore."

One delicate blonde eyebrow raised. "You were, and more than that. He told me, John — all of it."

John laughed nervously, telling himself that he was too old to blush over such a forthright declaration. He had to admit, however, this was a new situation, one he'd never expected. "I see. But if he told you anything about me, then you know that's even more reason _not_ to let him get involved. I can't risk him."

"And I'm saying you can," she corrected. John looked at her in surprise, wondering if he'd read their relationship wrong, and it was her turn to blush. "Oh, we're not — It's not like that. It's just — he wants to help." Before John could answer, she looked over towards the bar and quickly slid out of the booth. "Promise you'll at least consider?" she asked him.

He rose despite her protests. "All right," he conceded. Susie hugged him briefly, and John found himself holding his splinted wrist raised as best the sling would allow, twisted aside like a broken wing.

She gave him a grateful peck on the cheek, waited until Bill put down two pint glasses, and kissed her husband less-briefly on the lips. "You boys have fun. You'll have to come to dinner one day, John, when you're feeling better," she added, shaking his hand again before she pulled on her jacket and left.

"She seems nice," John said as he sat back down, nodding in thanks as Bill pushed a glass across the table to him. "How'd you catch her? Blackmail?"

"She likes strays." Bill rested his elbows on the table, looking directly into John's eyes, and more quietly asked, "How are you feeling?"

"Been worse, been better," John answered brusquely. He needed to stay focused on the mission, not on the empty space in his life that Sherlock had once occupied.

Bill nodded thoughtfully and slouched back, taking a drink. "I'm guessing you want to wait."

"Rather go over it all once," John agreed, relieved Bill had let the subject drop. "So, are you and Susie doing anything for the Easter holiday?"

"Oh, bloody hell, no. Her family can't stand that I'm not a doctor yet, and mine's all crazy. What about you?"

John smiled. "Yeah, I have plans. Getting out of town to see Gott, actually."

* * *

As soon as Vanterpool entered the pub, John spotted him: six-three, almost fourteen stone of solid muscle despite his return to civilian life. He looked like he still shaved his head, barely leaving a fine coat of black stubble. Grinning, John got to his feet and braced himself just in time to be pulled off the floor into a back-cracking hug that was as careful of his arm as it was fierce.

"Fuck, Watson, look at you," Vanterpool laughed, letting John get his balance before stepping back. "You sneak back over there without us knowing?"

"He thought I was bored," Bill said, shaking Vanterpool's hand before he slid back over in the booth.

"Long story," John said as he moved the crutch aside and sat back down. Only then did he spot the man lurking behind Vanterpool. Short, slim, and harmless-looking, nothing about him even hinted at a military background, so he was either genuinely a civilian or a bloody spook. "Have a seat. How've you been?"

"Better every day." Vanterpool sat down beside John and gestured to the other man. "That's Paul, a good friend. Hope you don't mind, but when I got Bill's call, I figured he could help."

"John Watson," he introduced himself with the friendliest smile he could manage, trying to figure out who this Paul was. What had Bill said to make someone like Corporal Roy Vanterpool think he needed backup?

"Good to meet you. Paul Dimmock," the man said, nodding to John and Bill in turn. "First round's on me. What's everyone drinking?"

"No more for me," John said. "One's my limit for now."

"Pool will make up for it," Bill said, grinning over at Vanterpool.

As soon as Paul was gone, Vanterpool folded his arms on the table and leaned over. In a low voice, he said, "Look, man, maybe I should've left Paul out of this, but Murray said trouble, and Paul's a good guy to have around."

"This is..." John hesitated, shaking his head at the foolishness of saying _dangerous_ after what he'd been through with Bill Murray and Roy Vanterpool. Instead, he turned to Bill and asked, "Is anyone else coming?"

"Mitchell's not in London. Torres said he'd try."

"Keith Torres?" Vanterpool asked, surprised. When Bill nodded, Vanterpool leaned back and whistled through clenched teeth. "Serious shit, then," he said gravely.

John's left hand clenched into a fist, sending a spike of pain through his wrist. "This didn't happen to me by accident."

Vanterpool's deep brown eyes went hard. "Paul owes me. He'll get our backs, as long as we're not killing anyone."

"Then we won't mention that part," John said seriously.

Vanterpool got the message. He nodded and leaned back again, long legs stretching out under the table. There was nothing at all friendly about his grin. "Got it. Anyone else involved?"

John answered immediately, "No. The fewer people who know about this, the safer we all are." He glanced across the table at Bill, whose expression never changed. It wasn't necessary to elaborate; they all understood _need-to-know_.

Nodding, Vanterpool looked across at Bill and asked, "What's this I hear about you getting married?"

"You just missed her by about fifteen minutes," Bill said, grinning. "I'm going back to med school for her. Well, that and to shut up her parents," he added, which led into an argument over whether he'd married Susie or her whole family, lasting until Paul returned with three pints and a glass of water for John.

"Eight years for me," Paul said as he distributed drinks. "My little girl just turned five."

"Now I'm glad you missed Susie," Bill said, lifting his glass. "She's feeling that itch. I want to get done with med school first. Cheers."

"Good thought," Vanterpool approved as they all drank. "But I could never settle, mate. Leave the marriage to you types. Think of all the heartbroken ladies who'd be lonely on weekend nights."

"Like tonight?" John asked.

Vanterpool laughed. "Helping a mate's more important. So, want to get into it while we're all still sober?"

With one last, wary glance at Paul, John nodded and softly said, "Twelve days ago, I was taken from my flat. Two gunmen and a driver, professionally trained —"

"Wait, what?" Paul interrupted just as quietly. "Taken, as in _kidnapped?_"

_Civilian,_ John thought, wondering again why Vanterpool had involved him. "Yes. I didn't hear them make entry. By the time I knew they were there, it was too late. They had me covered from both entrances to the room. Took me to an abandoned warehouse in Croydon. I managed to disarm one, but couldn't subdue them both."

"You said 'professional'," Vanterpool said meaningfully.

John nodded, meeting his eyes. "Military training, high-end. They were in suits."

"Shit," Paul said, frowning. "Domestic? I mean, you all met in Afghanistan, right? Were they foreigners?"

Surprised at the question, John answered, "Domestic. Especially their boss, who showed up after they worked me over a bit. Definitely public school, that one. Careful not to let me see his face, too. I'd recognize his voice, though."

"Assets?" Vanterpool asked.

"All I saw were a couple of forty-fives. The car was a sedan, black or dark blue, but new-looking. Washed."

"Can you describe any of them?" Paul asked.

John closed his eyes but had to shake his head. "Five-eleven, maybe six foot, built but nothing extraordinary... They looked _too_ anonymous. Switch the guns for briefcases and they could work in any office building in London."

Paul nodded. "What did they want?"

John took a deep breath. "Their boss... I guess he had a thing for my date or something. He wanted me to stop seeing him," he said, carefully avoiding the darker accusations.

"_What?"_ Vanterpool asked, putting down his glass with a thump.

Bill chuckled grimly. "Three-Continents Watson strikes again."

"Bugger off," John shot back reflexively.

"Who were you dating?" Paul asked, shaking his head. "Someone in government? You said 'him'."

"Not even close." John couldn't quite suppress his smile. "First time I met him, I figured him for a lab tech. He works out of Bart's — St. Bartholomew's Hospital, that is. He calls himself a 'consulting detective'."

Paul's eyes went wide. "Sherlock Holmes?"

John sat back, startled. "You've heard of him?"

"Bloody hell, the man's a legend."

John stared at Paul as the pieces fell into place: Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective for the Met. Vanterpool's cop friend from all those years ago, the one with a daughter. "Oh, Christ," he muttered, looking around automatically for any sign of surveillance. "Fucking hell, Pool."

"What? What is it?" Vanterpool asked sharply, sitting up in an alert, familiar manner.

"He's _police,_" John accused before he caught himself. He looked at Paul and said, "No offense, but he said if I talked to the police, my family was next. My sister's little girl..."

"Shit." Paul glanced at Vanterpool, frowning in thought. "Anyone who knows me knows Roy and I are mates, though."

"Murray's the one who set this up," Vanterpool added.

"Hey," Bill protested.

"I'm just saying, this was all coincidence. This wasn't you going to the police." Vanterpool relaxed a bit as he turned back to John.

Paul had a phone out, the screen glowing under his chin. "What's your sister's name? I can have a uniform do a couple of drive-bys, keep an eye —"

"No," John said quickly, though it killed him to refuse any protection. "No, let's just... play it like we never even discussed any of this."

"You think I'm letting them get away with this, mate, and you're crazy," Vanterpool objected.

John smiled humorlessly. "Believe me, they won't. Let's just avoid any _official_ intervention." He looked over at Paul and said, "You may not want to be here."

Vanterpool and Paul exchanged a look, before Paul shook his head and said, "I'm in, if you'll have me."

John glanced at Vanterpool, who solemnly nodded. "Right," John said, still uneasy about it. He was desperate, though. "These bastards may be government or something. They don't fight fair. If they think you're helping, God knows who they'll go after, to stop all of us."

Paul nodded, dropping his phone back into his jacket. "If they're government, all the more reason to put a stop to them. No one gets away with this — not in my city."

"So, where do we start, Captain?" Vanterpool asked, leaning back as he picked up his pint again.

"We go over their op, step-by-step. Dissect everything they did. See if we can determine their training from that. Then we figure out next steps," John said.

Vanterpool nodded and finished his glass in three swallows. "Refills first. My round."

* * *

19/03/10 2038  
To: Site Lead  
CC: Lead  
Subject: JW update  
Notification of onsite threat. Subject JW at The White Hart. DI Paul Dimmock entered with unidentified companion. Dimmock is now with Subject JW. Advise.  
-019 remote team

Jim's mobile rang seconds after receiving the email. After seeing the caller ID, he ducked back into the car and slammed the door. The armor plating dulled most of the noise of the waiting helicopter's rotors. "What?"

"You tell me. I can be onsite in fifteen minutes, twenty if there's traffic," Moran said.

The expense didn't matter — not with things blowing up, literally, in County Armagh. "Go. I need to be out of town for the next ten hours, and that's if things go well."

"Need me with you?"

Jim hesitated, tempted. This was a last-minute meeting, which meant his contacts probably wouldn't have time to lay any sort of trap, but by the same token, the meet would lack Jim's usual security precautions.

Another time, he might've actually called John and asked for his help.

"No," he finally told Moran. "Stay on task. Don't intervene unless it looks like he's being arrested. What do we have on Dimmock?"

"Nothing. So either he really is insignificant —"

"Or he's covered his arse well. He's a DI, so he knows how to play politics."

"Keep me posted. My meeting's at midnight, so get me something before then."

"Midnight, huh?" Moran asked, not bothering to disguise his interest.

"Consider it a deadline," Jim said, disconnecting before Moran could directly ask about tonight's meeting. Technically, Moran was competition in the arms running business — well, the same way a corner greengrocer was in competition with Tesco.

Jim got out of the car, beckoning his guards to follow him to the waiting helicopter. They were competent, well-paid, and moderately loyal. Still, it would've been good to have an actual _professional_ with him.

Maybe next time, he could find a way to bring John Watson along.

* * *

John splashed water on his face to help himself stay focused. He'd stopped taking codeine, which meant the ache in his knee was becoming distracting. He was tempted to dull the pain with a shot or two, but he couldn't risk being in any way compromised on the way home.

After drying his hands and face, he took out his phone and opened a text message without thinking. His hands went tight around the plastic case before he could slide out the keyboard. He wondered if he'd ever lose the habit of wanting to text Sherlock.

He debated texting Jim instead, but the thought felt too much like cheating. He put the phone back in his pocket and leaned his head back against the wall, wishing this was all over and done with already. Staying focused on his goal had always helped him in the past, but now it was just a distraction.

The loo door swung open and Paul walked in, glancing around as though checking if they were alone. He walked up next to John at the sinks and said, "Sorry again for showing up unexpectedly like this."

John shrugged. "Neither of you knew what was going on." Because they were alone in the little room, he added, more quietly, "If you're going to arrest me, that's fine. I really don't care. I just want to get the bastard that did this to me first."

Paul laughed a little nervously. "I'd really rather not. Roy would probably kill me, and that would leave my little girl without a father or her godfather. Let's not do that to her, mate."

"You made him your daughter's godfather?"

Paul grinned. "For a while there, he was sending presents back every week. I think my wife likes him more than she likes me."

"He's a good one," John agreed, wondering if Paul knew the other side of Vanterpool. When it came to a quiet, up-close kill, John had relied on Vanterpool's ability to disappear into the night. In the time Vanterpool had been assigned to John's section, at least eight sentries had never realized death was right behind them. "You got him off the streets."

Paul nodded. "All he needed was a chance to do something with his life. Arresting him wouldn't have given him that chance." He glanced over his shoulder at the door. Then he lowered his voice even more and asked, "You said... Well, you implied you and Sherlock Holmes..."

John nodded, wondering if this was going to be a problem. "Yes," was all he said.

Paul took a breath, avoiding John's eyes. "I've heard about him. Never worked with him. He can be a real arse, but he's solved some impossible cases. Cold cases, too — sometimes just from looking at the files."

"I can imagine."

"The DI he usually works with — DI Lestrade. I know him pretty well. I could talk to him, maybe find out something useful."

John hesitated before he stuck his hand in his pocket and took out his building manager's note. "Actually, he's already involved," he said quietly, offering the note to Paul. "I think he's just on the wrong side."

Paul skimmed the note quickly. "Shit," he whispered, glancing up at John in confusion. "When —"

"Out there," John said, taking the note back. "I'd rather just go over this the one time."

"Yeah. Okay," Paul said worriedly. "Meet you back there."

John nodded, picked up his crutch, and left the loo, nearly running down a woman who was lurking in the hallway. "Sorry," he said quickly as she bumped into him again, trying to get out of his way.

"'S all right, mate," she said cheerfully, her hand lingering a moment too long against his body before she slid past him. She was carrying a tattered backpack slung over one shoulder and wearing layers of jackets still wet from the rain.

Automatically, John felt for his wallet. He still had it, so he shook his head and made his way back to the table, weaving carefully through the crowd. As he sat down, his jacket fell heavily against his hip, as if there were something in the outer pocket. He left the crutch against the table and slid over on the bench seat, putting his hand into his pocket.

He felt hard plastic, and took out an unfamiliar mobile with a charging cord and plug wrapped around it, the whole thing fixed in place with clear sellotape. Baffled, he stared at it, belatedly recognizing the configuration of the keyboard under the small screen. It was identical to the mobile Sherlock carried.

_What the fuck?_

Bill and Vanterpool returned to the table. Bill was carrying an immense basket of chips and chicken wings. "Everything all right, Captain?" he asked, taking his seat opposite John.

Heart pounding, John nodded and forced a smile. "Yeah. No problem," he lied, hiding the mobile back in his pocket as Vanterpool sat down beside him.

* * *

"This gets stranger," Paul said as soon as he returned to the table.

"CIA?" Bill asked, gesturing with a half-stripped chicken bone. Vanterpool kicked him under the table, almost spilling the glasses.

"Ignore him," John said, wondering if Paul knew anything about the phone. It had to have been put in his pocket by the woman in the hallway, though she was nowhere to be seen in the crowd. "Go on."

"This whole warehouse thing sounded familiar. And after that note you showed me, I —"

"What note?" Vanterpool interrupted. John held up a hand and nodded for Paul to continue.

"I remembered a memo that went out last Monday. Standard stuff — not a priority or anything. Another detective got a tip that sent him to a warehouse. Forensics reported that someone had been attacked there. Not enough blood for a homicide."

John sat back. "_That_ warehouse? The one —"

"I think so," Paul said quickly. "The tip went straight to DI Lestrade's mobile. Didn't come through the switchboard."

"This gets even more confusing," John muttered, shifting so he could get the note out of his jeans pocket. He looked at Bill and Vanterpool as he set the note down on the table for them both to read. "Detective Inspector Lestrade's the one who I met at the morgue, when Sherlock called me there. When I finally went back home a week ago, I found this, from my apartment manager."

"I can look into it," Paul offered immediately.

"Without being noticed?"

"No problem. There'll be a record of the call."

"Do it," John said. Paul took out his phone and began to type.

"You think this Lestrade is working with the opposition?" Bill asked.

Reluctantly, John nodded, glancing at Paul. "I do," he admitted. Much as he'd liked Lestrade, there was no legitimate reason for him to have been in John's flat. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Paul, but if someone did actually call to say there was a disturbance, wouldn't it be a uniformed officer answering the call?"

"Most likely, yes," Paul said without looking up from his phone, sounding unhappy. "But from what I can tell, there was no call."

"Shit," Bill muttered.

John sighed. "Right. So, that's one more person we can't — _Fuck,_" he interrupted himself. "Sherlock has no idea he's a potential threat."

Paul frowned. "Maybe I can try and get him to work for me for a bit?"

"That might be too much of a coincidence," Vanterpool warned. "They might not think twice about you meeting Watson because of me, but if you get involved with Sherlock right after..."

John nodded. "Can you safely keep an eye on Lestrade?"

"Not a problem. We're both in homicide," Paul answered.

"Then that's the best we can do." John took a deep breath and folded the note up again. "Okay, next steps," he said. Remembering he hadn't eaten, he reached for the chips.

"Murray and I ask around, see if anyone's contacted any of the guys we know with contract offers in the last month," Vanterpool said. "I can check out the warehouse tomorrow."

"No," John said. "You've got no legitimate reason to go there. I'll go."

"In your..." Bill began, though he shut his mouth at John's glare. John nodded and turned to Paul.

"I'll see what Lestrade's up to. I'll pull the report on the warehouse, too. I can get a copy to Roy."

"We can meet back here in a few days," Vanterpool suggested.

"Let's switch it up." John took out his phone — not the BlackBerry. "Where's your local?"

They all took down the address Vanterpool gave, and Bill suggested, "Tuesday night?"

When the others nodded, John said, "Sounds good. One last thing — keep an eye out. If you see anyone following you, try and get a description, but don't let them know you know."

"Want countersurveillance?" Vanterpool offered.

"Let's do that on Tuesday. Tonight, it'd be too suspicious."

"I'll come by your flat on Tuesday afternoon," Bill said. "I want to make sure you're actually healing."

"Fine. Bring your wife — I actually liked her," John said, breaking the tension.

"Bet she's got a lovely bedside manner too," Vanterpool said with a laugh, before being swatted at by Bill. "All right, all right, let's actually enjoy this next round, yes? Anyone catch the League match last night? Liverpool and Lille, I think?"

* * *

A loud clatter outside the window startled Sherlock out of his seat. Mrs. Hudson waved him back down, saying, "It's just Mrs. Turner's cats, dear. Always getting into the bins."

"That was out front," Sherlock said, abandoning the armchair and the mind-numbing telly. His coat was upstairs, in his flat, but he didn't need it. The gun was holstered at the small of his back, so he unbuttoned his suit jacket to better access it and rushed out front.

The rubbish bin in front of Speedy's was turned over, still rocking gently from side-to-side, scattering plastic wrappers and paper napkins. A familiar blond woman was gathering up the cans that had spilled out. People gave her a wide berth as they walked by.

Sherlock closed the door loudly enough to get her attention. She looked up at him and asked, "Spare change, sir?"

He walked over to her and said, "Don't mind if I do," as he extended his hand to help her up. She took it, pressing a slip of paper against his palm.

"Ta, mate." She shoved a couple of cans into her backpack and walked away.

Sherlock went back inside, leaving the rubbish bin where it had fallen, and glanced at the slip of paper. It had been torn from the map he'd given her. Written in pencil on the back was the word _Done._

He pocketed the paper — he'd burn it later — and took the new BlackBerry from his pocket to check for any texts. There were none, but that was no surprise. After this long, the phone's battery might have died. He'd check again tomorrow.

"Everything all right, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked curiously as she met him in the front hall.

Sherlock smiled. "Perfect."

* * *

John didn't look at the new mobile until he was back in his flat. They'd spent just over an hour laughing and chatting and acting perfectly normal before curiosity had got the best of him. He'd excused himself early, leaving the other three to finish out the night while he found a taxi and returned home. Once there, he went straight to the bedroom, holstered his SIG, and checked the mobile. The power was dead, so he plugged it in to charge and went to shower off the beer-smell clinging to him.

He couldn't quiet his anxiety about Lestrade. Brilliant as Sherlock was, he probably had no idea that Lestrade was working for the man who'd come between them. He'd have no reason to suspect that Lestrade was an enemy. All John could do, though, was hope that Lestrade's boss was satisfied that John was playing by the rules. That was his only chance of keeping Sherlock safe long enough for him to find out who was behind this all.

As he felt his left wrist, tentatively testing how well it was healing, he considered the mobile charging in the bedroom. There was no way it had accidentally been dropped into his pocket, nor was it an accident that it was a BlackBerry just like Sherlock's. Was he meant to think it had come from Sherlock? Or was it a test to see what he'd do? The timing may have been intentional — having it delivered the night John openly met with a homicide detective.

He _wanted_ to think it was from Sherlock. John had disconnected his number, and his mobile was now in listed under an anonymous account through Irene's business. There was no easy way for Sherlock to get in touch with him, short of showing up at his doorstep, and he had to know John would never allow that. Or perhaps he was just mercifully saving them both the pain of another confrontation.

After six weeks of texting with Sherlock, though, John could easily imagine him getting John a mobile so they could resume their texting. But would he? John had made it very clear that they were through — that he wanted no contact _at all _with Sherlock.

Of course, there was a very good chance that Sherlock had seen through his performance and knew he'd been lying.

And there was an equally good chance that the phone had been planted by their enemy.

Finally, when he got out of the shower, he decided he had to treat it as a test. He wouldn't use it — not for calls or texts or anything at all. He strapped the brace back around his knee, splinted his wrist, and went to lie down, hoping he wouldn't have another sleepless night. All those years in combat, he hadn't had any difficulty sleeping through explosions and helicopters and even gunfire more than once. This was a hell of a time to develop insomnia.

Before he turned off the light, though, he felt compelled to check the phone. The battery had charged enough that the phone powered up. It went through its startup routine much more quickly than John's own phone, reminding him that he should plug it in to charge overnight. By the time he did, the BlackBerry screen was glowing with a text alert.

John stopped breathing. He picked it up and figured out how to open the text. The date stamp was 14 March, 9:38 p.m. — almost a week ago.

The day after he'd returned to his flat.

He was unaccountably nervous as he opened the text.

_I'm not bored now._


	4. Chapter 4

**Saturday, 20 March 2010**

The tranquility of the Diogenes Club reading room was broken only by the rustle of paper, the ringing sound of a perfectly poured cup of tea, and the hard thunder of rain against the elegantly high, narrow windows. From Mycroft's perspective, he could have been alone in the world, save for the occasional visual distraction of Lord Haverford's foot when he shifted position in the neighboring armchair.

With the exception of Sherlock's earlier text, it was a perfect afternoon.

Mycroft had set his mobile to mute, though he'd left it on the side table, where the glowing screen would catch his attention if he received an important call or message. After the _incident_ two weeks earlier, he'd moved all of Sherlock's communications to the highest priority, which meant his text caused the screen to flash until Mycroft acknowledged it.

_I'm not going home for Easter. Don't bother me. -SH_

Twice each year, Mycroft received a similar message. It was very nearly a ritual with his little brother, Sherlock's way of digging in his heels like a child refusing to go to the dentist. Was this year different, though?

Mycroft actually debated allowing Sherlock to skip the visit home, much as it would upset Mummy, but in the end, he decided to treat this as he always did. So he dispatched a car to collect Sherlock, left word with the doorman, and settled down to read the newspaper while he waited.

But the distraction offered by a publicly available newspaper couldn't hold his attention. He already knew the truth behind the 'major' stories, often days in advance. Instead, his thoughts kept drifting to the problem of his brother. Physically, Sherlock seemed as healthy as always, but the experts all informed Mycroft that sexual assault inevitably left scars, and not only on the victim. Every day, Mycroft felt something uncomfortably like guilt that the specialists could not assuage. They gave him conflicting advice on how best to help Sherlock through the trauma, and the only thing they all agreed upon was that Sherlock himself needed counseling, perhaps even another inpatient stay. With his history, there was a very good chance of a relapse into addiction.

The problem, though, was that not one of them _knew_ his brother — not the way Mycroft did. Even the psychiatrists who'd seen Sherlock during childhood had lacked a visceral understanding of how both Holmes brothers thought: logical, rational, coldly unemotional. Sherlock would never present symptoms of an _emotional_ wound, because he was incapable. At best, a psychiatrist would interpret that as a sign of repression and would attempt to dig deeper, provoking Sherlock's temper. At worst, he'd be medicated into oblivion.

It was a shame that Mycroft's forthright attempt at therapy had failed. Once Captain John Watson was suitably cowed, Mycroft had his PA call a tip directly to Detective Lestrade. Surveillance had reported that Sherlock was with the DI, which made for an ideal situation. Lestrade would have kept Sherlock from killing Watson, and Sherlock would have enjoyed the admittedly base pleasure of seeing the tables turned on his tormentor. He also would have had the opportunity to press criminal charges, a task less daunting in the presence of his ally on the force, while his attacker was captive before him.

It should have worked. As predicted, Lestrade had brought Sherlock with him to the warehouse, but by then, Watson had somehow effected an escape. It was infuriating, but the whole situation had been rushed. Even Mycroft's people couldn't have anticipated Watson's ability to slip police-issue handcuffs so rapidly. Probably something to do with his so-called 'job'.

Mycroft's thoughts were interrupted by the presence of a footman, who bowed and silently gestured Mycroft to the door. Once they were in the hallway, the footman said, "Mr. Sherlock Holmes to see you, sir. If you would follow me to the blue room?" At Mycroft's nod, he led the way to one of the guest meeting rooms down the hall.

Sherlock was sprawled in an armchair, jacket left open, black shirt straining at its buttons. As the footman closed the door, leaving them to their privacy, he glared sullenly up at Mycroft and drawled, "Resorting to kidnapping now?"

For one moment, Mycroft wondered if Sherlock had found out about his little chat with Watson. He pushed the thought aside and went to the bar. "Must we go through this every year, Sherlock?" he asked, finding his preferred scotch.

"Obviously, since you're too stupid to learn from previous experience."

Ignoring the harsh words, Mycroft poured a generous measure of scotch into a crystal glass as he studied Sherlock. Pale, eyes shadowed — not sleeping well, but that particular affliction had existed since birth for them both. Sleep, they both knew, was a deplorable waste of time. No slight tremor in his hands, so he hadn't been overdoing either caffeine or nicotine. No sign of drugs, but that wasn't a surprise. At the first hint of drugs, Mycroft's surveillance teams would sound myriad alarms.

Perhaps he'd put this distasteful incident firmly in the past, where it belonged, and this really was nothing more than his usual recalcitrant attitude.

Curious to learn more, Mycroft poured a second glass before he slid open a drawer. There was a small selection of cigarettes, and he quickly found Sherlock's preferred brand. He brought Sherlock's glass to him, and left the cigarettes nearby. As he went back to the bar to retrieve his own drink, he said, "Mummy is expecting us to arrive the morning of Good Friday."

"Childish," Sherlock said, utterly disregarding the irony. Mycroft glanced back to see him taking a cigarette; he'd never been one to refuse an indulgence.

"It's important the family is visible in such a small parish."

"Yes, do give my best to God," Sherlock said, standing and rummaging around on the hearth for a long match. He struck it on the mantle, leaving a streak of black scored across the marble. So either he wasn't carrying a lighter or he didn't want Mycroft to know he was.

"It's _tradition,_" Mycroft countered, taking the armchair opposite Sherlock's.

Deliberately, Sherlock exhaled a cloud of smoke in his direction. He tossed the matchstick into the fireplace. He sat back down and looked Mycroft over with his customary disdain. "Why do you persist in this charade? If not for your idiotic 'traditions', Mummy would be sunning herself in the south of France for Easter."

Rather than answering immediately, Mycroft sipped his excellent scotch. He could predict every word of the conversation that would follow — and they both knew Sherlock could do the same. There was no sense in actually retreading that old ground.

So Sherlock smoked, not touching his scotch, and Mycroft drank, not touching the cigarettes. Their conversation was conducted in perfect silence, through glances and the rhythm of breaths and the subtle shift of their posture. And in the end, as Mycroft had expected, Sherlock betrayed very little of his inner thoughts but did surrender to the inevitability of a holiday weekend at the family home.

When Sherlock stubbed out the cigarette, Mycroft said, "If you'll excuse me, dear brother, I have plans for dinner."

"Ruining your diet again?"

Mycroft smiled. "I believe the minister is serving fish."

He escorted Sherlock out to the foyer, where one of the servants held up Sherlock's Belstaff. Sherlock had purchased it two days after Mycroft had presented him with a classic Burberry overcoat which Sherlock had returned to Mycroft in a small box, the material cut into pieces. Mycroft still had no idea how Sherlock had been able to afford the Belstaff.

When Sherlock took his coat, he bumped into Mycroft, rather expertly. The motion was just natural enough that the servant apologized for clumsily jostling him. Mycroft doubted anyone else would have noticed the way Sherlock's hand dipped into Mycroft's pocket for just a moment. Sherlock glared the servant into silence and pulled on his coat. When his hand emerged from the sleeve, he was no longer holding the wallet he'd stolen from Mycroft — inside left pocket, then.

Mycroft considered calling him on the theft, but Sherlock was enamored of his childish games, and the trauma Sherlock had suffered still weighed heavily on Mycroft's mind. For all his power, Mycroft had failed to protect his younger brother in the most basic way.

He allowed Sherlock this brief victory, and watched him leave without a farewell. Since Sherlock hadn't lifted his phone, Mycroft sent a brief text, instructing his PA to visit Sherlock's flat in an hour or so to discreetly pick up the wallet, which would satisfy all parties. Mycroft would get his identification back, and Sherlock would have the opportunity to gloat over his clever pickpocketing skills. That would suffice.

* * *

Four different cashpoints yielded a total of two thousand pounds, the theft of which Sherlock could easily blame on Mycroft. He was the one who'd chosen easily-guessed PINs, after all.

The evening had worked out very much to Sherlock's satisfaction. For all his cleverness and education, Mycroft was so _easy_ to manipulate. Short of manufacturing drugs for street sale — something John surely wouldn't condone — the easiest way for Sherlock to acquire large sums of cash was to steal it from Mycroft. Since Mycroft's accounts were expertly protected from electronic tampering, Sherlock had to resort to more old fashioned methods such as pickpocketing, requiring him to be in Mycroft's presence. But Sherlock couldn't simply drop by for a visit — too out of character for them both — which meant there had to be a reason.

His text regarding the Easter holiday had been specifically designed to irritate Mycroft into sending one of his flunkies to retrieve Sherlock for an in-person meeting. As predicted, Mycroft had done just that. And because it had been Mycroft's idea, he'd been conveniently off-guard. He hadn't even noticed Sherlock lifting his wallet. He was growing complacent as well as fat.

At the fourth bank, he flagged down a taxi to take him to the nearest bridge where he could make contact with his informants. The rain always made it easier for him to find them. The chilly weather also reminded him that he hadn't yet heard from John. By now, the phone should be charged, but perhaps he hadn't thought to check previously sent texts.

_I'll be out tonight, meeting friends. I won't be out too late. I'll pick up dinner on the way home._

He sent the text, satisfied that it would convey everything he wanted John to know without rousing suspicion from anyone who might be monitoring his communications. John would know that Sherlock didn't go out with 'friends' unless they had useful information, and he would understand that Sherlock was making an effort to take care of himself.

For the rest of the ride, he waited for a response, but none came. Perhaps John didn't know how to respond. John's personal phone was a much simpler model, after all. Perhaps Sherlock should have sent the user guide along with the phone.

No, John wasn't stupid. There had to be some other reason he wasn't answering. Perhaps it simply wasn't safe for him to do so.

Might Sherlock be putting him at risk by contacting him even in this indirect manner? He looked down at the BlackBerry, its screen gone dark from inactivity, and he wondered if he should get rid of the phone, or at least stop sending texts.

Finally, as the taxi reached the bridge, he put the phone back into his pocket, deciding that he'd continue texting John unless instructed to stop. John might keep the phone off or even destroy it, or he might read every single text and appreciate the updates, even if he never did respond.

Sending the texts made him feel somehow closer to John. It was a ridiculous emotional reaction that had no basis in logic, but he couldn't help but notice that he felt... _better,_ which was a wholly inadequate term for the relaxing warmth that suffused his chest when he thought about communicating with John, even in this electronic, one-sided manner.

The raw emotion of it should have been abhorrent. Instead, it brought a smile to his lips.

Sherlock paid the driver and went back out into the rain, turning his collar up against the wind. He pushed through a break in the nearby fence and took off his gloves. His right pocket held several hundred quid in ten-pound notes. As he made his way carefully down the embankment to the high point below the northeast end of the bridge, he folded one of the bills into his palm. Four people were camped out under the ledge, with tarps and stacked oil drums to keep off the worst of the wind.

"Spare change, anyone?" Sherlock asked, recognizing at least one of them — possibly another one though it was hard to tell under all the layers of hoods, hats, and scarves.

The one he recognized said, "For a cuppa, yeah."

"Any news?" Sherlock asked, extending his hand to pass over the tenner.

"Hear Nikki's got somethin'. Next bridge down," he added helpfully, pointing upriver.

Sherlock nodded his thanks and went back up to the road. There was no sense in taking a taxi, so he put his gloves back on and walked, keeping an alert eye on his surroundings.

The next bridge held a more substantial community of eleven. A fiver encouraged one of them to point out Nikki, a stick-thin girl, barely thirteen or fourteen, with ratty hair pulled down around her face in an effort to keep her ears warm. Upon seeing her condition, Sherlock told her, "Come with me," and kept walking. He'd passed an all-night coffee shop a couple of blocks back. She followed without protest, jogging to keep up with his long strides. Her breath wheezed in a distinctly unhealthy way.

It wasn't until Sherlock led her into the coffee shop that he realized he hadn't even verified she was part of his network, much less that she had valuable information for him. He stopped in his tracks, analyzing the thoughts that had been running in the background while the rest of him had been on autopilot, distracted by fatigue and the cold weather.

She was young and unhealthy and vulnerable. None of that was his concern, but here he was, thinking not just to pay her for her information but to get her a hot meal. To his mild surprise, he found himself remembering the various helpline phone numbers that people had once told him, when he'd disappeared onto the streets to evade Mycroft's interference.

She was too filthy to go to the counter without risking being thrown out. "Sit," he told her, pointing to the corner table closest to the door, where the clerks were least likely to notice her. She did, not saying a word, not even looking up to meet his eyes.

Frowning, he went to order coffee for himself, tea and a hot sandwich for her. When he saw one of the clerks about to dump out the remnants of the soup-of-the-day, he said, "A bowl of that as well. Whatever's left." Soup was good for illness; John would approve.

A few minutes later, he paid and carried a tray to the front table. He took his coffee and pushed the tray across to the girl. "You're Nikki?"

"Yeah. This all for me?"

Sherlock nodded and she all but attacked the sandwich, scattering bits of foil everywhere. "You have information for me?"

She pushed her hair back out of her face to avoid eating it. "Clancy," she said, scattering crumbs as she continued to eat while speaking. "He said you was wantin' someone watched, so I was helpin'. He said you pay good money."

His skin crawled; he barely managed to resist correcting her manners and grammar. Some instinct told him that if he raised his voice at all, she'd bolt, food or not. "I do — when there's actual information of interest," he added.

She nodded again, more vigorously. "It were earlier this mornin'. I spelled Clancy a bit while he had a kip, an' the bloke we was followin' went out. He ain't too fast, on account of that crutch he got, I s'pose." She paused long enough to take a drink of the tea, wrinkled her nose, and picked up the sugar to pour in a liberal dose.

So John was still using his crutch. Sherlock's chest tightened at the thought. Had he been that badly injured? Or was he faking it, hoping to draw his enemy out by appearing vulnerable? Sherlock just hoped John was wise enough to carry his gun and keep his guards close.

When the tea was sufficiently sweet, Nikki continued, "He took a cab, but I've a board an' usually I keep up all right. Least in London, an' he din't go too far. Just to a warehouse down Croydon way. Some old factory. Not falling apart too badly, even though it were Croydon. Maybe if I need to shift out of here I'll kip there for a bit. Whole area were pretty empty, it being Saturday an' all, so he tol' the cabbie to wait. Weren't too hard to slip in behind him, but he just went into this room an' stood lookin' at it. Stood there maybe five minutes? Just looking. Then turned around an' came back out. That's all."

"That's all he did there? Could you see what he was looking at in the room? What building was it?" Sherlock frowned. The warehouse could be the same one he'd visited with Lestrade twelve days earlier. Was it John who had been assaulted there?

He thought back to the scene he'd reconstructed. _Two men dragging a third, a struggle for the gun, the victim in the chair, the fourth man circling behind._ John was absolutely skilled enough to fight back against a gunman, even if he himself were unarmed.

If it were John, though, Mycroft would have had no reason to be there, so... a business rival, then. And certainly not for John's 'day' job. John _had to be_ Moriarty, though what that meant, Sherlock didn't yet understand. There was so much more to him than just the brilliant mind behind the serial suicides. This could be some mundane conflict with another mob boss in the endless struggle to maintain his grip on whatever slice of the city he'd claimed as his own, or it could be some more esoteric conflict. Another mob boss would have simply ordered a rival killed, after all.

The girl had made her way through the sandwich remarkably quickly, perhaps afraid he would rescind his generosity. When she felt his gaze settle on her again, she swallowed quickly, "No, couldn't see the room. He were in the doorway. The factory? Somethin' with metalwork? Maybe? An' he didn't do nothin' else. Just stood, and looked and..." Her gaze went sideways.

Sherlock sat forward, the cup of burnt coffee forgotten in his grasp. Had she remembered something _interesting?_

"When he went outside," she started slowly, "he were lookin' all at the ground. Dunno what made that bit special, but he went over to one bit of dirt and he picked it up, an' put it in a little baggie, like for meth or somethin'. An' I know I'm maybe a bit _off,_ but that's just odd."

"Show me," Sherlock said at once. He stuck his hand in his pocket and counted twenty of the ten-pound notes. He deftly rolled them and put his hand on the table, showing them to her. "As soon as you're done eating, take me there and show me _exactly_ where he was looking at the dirt."

She gave him a familiar look, the one that silently said he was mad. The money, though, guaranteed that she didn't protest. She nodded, her gaze following the bills that he tucked back into his pocket. "Yeah, 'kay," she agreed, and picked up the styrofoam cup of soup to slurp at it, without bothering to use her spoon.

* * *

John alternated between bites of reheated takeaway and paging through the police bulletins on every local news site, scanning for any mention of DI Lestrade, DI Dimmock, or Sherlock Holmes. A Google search of Lestrade had pulled up a link to Sherlock's website, though he hadn't dared click the link. He wasn't prepared to take the risk that his internet use was still being monitored.

When he finished with dinner, he checked his email. Harry was drunk-emailing him again, so he deleted five incoherent messages unread. Clara's email was much nicer, including a picture of Clara and her daughter taken somewhere outside London, where the weather was nice.

There were also two emails from Dr. Thompson politely suggesting that he schedule an appointment. They were the same form emails he'd been receiving since he'd quit therapy shortly after starting work at Irene's. He could just imagine what Dr. Thompson would say to him now. She'd say his previous 'trust issues' had transformed into full-blown paranoia, and possibly even suggest he have himself hospitalized for a brief rest, none of which would help him with the fact that there really was some bastard after him. Besides, he didn't dare tell her the truth. That bastard, whoever he was, had even got into _her_ files.

A buzzing sound in the bedroom caught his attention, and he grabbed for his SIG before the source fully registered in his consciousness. It was his new mobile, the one that had been slipped into his pocket at the pub.

He circled around his desk warily, limping along without his crutch, eyes fixed on the mobile glowing in the darkness of the bedroom. When he'd come home from the warehouse, he'd plugged both mobiles into their respective chargers and then forgot about them. Now, he approached with the same caution he'd learned halfway across the world, in territory where IEDs sprouted like weeds.

The screen was blinking a text alert. He leaned down and unplugged the mobile, lifting it nervously.

_Why were you here? Did you leave a message for me? If you did, I haven't found it. I'm sorry. Next time, I'll try harder._

John stared down at the screen, breathing long, hard breaths. It was Sherlock. Was it Sherlock? It sounded like it had to be, but it couldn't be. That train of thought was just John chasing his own tail. But still, his fingers shook as he scrolled back. There was another text from a couple of hours earlier, when he'd been in the shower:

_I'll be out tonight, meeting friends. I won't be out too late. I'll pick up dinner on the way home._

Friends? Sherlock didn't have _friends_. He'd said so; John had asked if he was lonely, but he'd insisted he preferred solitude to being surrounded by dull, slow-witted idiots. That text couldn't be from Sherlock.

And that other text: _Why were you here?_ Was that Sherlock's way of assuming John would know where 'here' was? Or was it a subtle reminder that John was being watched? Perhaps he was meant to _think_ Sherlock was the one watching him, when it really was the bastard behind this all, hoping to trick John into letting his guard down.

Both texts were from the same sender — the same anonymous number. So it couldn't be Sherlock. As much as it sounded like him, it _couldn't be_. John was just seeing what he wanted. It was that fucking bastard, testing him. But it sounded so damned much like Sherlock — the way he'd just jump into the middle of a conversation as though expecting John to catch up with him, the way he'd taken to assuring John he was taking care of himself...

John opened a response without thinking, but stopped himself before he could actually type anything. Every instinct in him was screaming for him to respond, even if it was just to tell Sherlock — to tell _whoever_ — that it was late and to go to sleep. That thought made him look from the glowing mobile screen to the bed, barely visible in the faint light spilling through the doorway, and he had to force himself to limp out of the bedroom before he could remember Sherlock in that bed, in his arms.

Gently, he set the strange mobile down on his desk, though a part of him wanted to smash it to pieces to spare himself. He had to stay focused. He couldn't allow himself to be distracted like this, or he'd sabotage himself, and there was too much at stake for him to risk slipping in any way.

He sat down in his armchair, eyeing the mobile as if it were a poisonous snake, and tried to calm his thoughts. Last night, he'd finally _done something_. He'd made progress. It felt good to finally take some kind of action, even if it was no more than contacting his allies.

Absently, he pulled the little baggie out of his pocket and pressed the malleable plastic against the dirt inside. Perhaps it wasn't from the exact spot where he'd been pulled out of the car, but it was close enough. Looking at it helped him push his emotions aside. London dirt, one more place where he'd suffered and bled. And one day, it would go into the box with all the rest, properly sorted and put in the past.

When his pulse returned to a properly slow rate, he rose and picked up the new mobile. There were no new messages. He figured out how to cancel the text he'd begun and then turned off the mobile. He didn't want it interrupting his sleep — not tonight. For now, it would go back onto his makeshift bedside table along with the baggie of dirt: two very different reminders of the goal he would achieve, at almost any cost.


	5. Chapter 5

**Monday, 22 March 2010**

"You ignored my calls," Sherlock accused, walking unannounced into Lestrade's office.

"Happy Monday to you, too," Lestrade answered. He didn't bother to look away from his computer screen.

Sherlock hung his coat and scarf, slammed the office door, and claimed one of the uncomfortable guest chairs. "I need the file on the man o'war death. Everything you have — formal autopsy, forensic evidence, everything from the man o'war warehouse and the other warehouse."

Lestrade's brows went up, and he met Sherlock's gaze. "The other warehouse?"

"Yes, the _other_ warehouse," Sherlock snapped, glancing briefly over Lestrade's desk. Plastic cap from a disposable coffee cup, half-full mug, dried drip down the side from where coffee had splashed out as he'd carried it from the pot to his desk. "You've had two cups of coffee already, and half of a third. Your wits are as sharp as they ever get."

Sighing, Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose before he swiveled his chair and reached for his keyboard. "Why the sudden interest? I thought you were bored with that case."

Frustration crept into Sherlock's voice as he said, "It's still not solved."

Lestrade glanced away from the monitor, meeting Sherlock's eyes, though he kept typing. He looked tired and drawn, but his gaze was alert. "What's this _really_ about?" he asked more quietly.

"It's John."

Lestrade sat forward, failing to disguise his interest. "Did you hear from him?"

Sherlock shook his head stiffly. He still hadn't received an answer to his texts. "I think he _can't_ contact me," he said slowly.

"Can't?"

"_He_ was the unknown victim at the second warehouse."

_"What?"_

"Do keep up, Lestrade," Sherlock snapped. "The files!"

Lestrade muttered under his breath but turned back to his computer. A moment later, the printer behind him started to hum. It took almost five insufferably long minutes for the printer to finally produce a complete report, which Lestrade gathered, stacked, and passed across the desk.

Sherlock rifled through the warm pages until he got to the forensics report. "Here," he said, slapping down the appropriate sheet. "The blood evidence."

"What about it?"

"The blood type. That's John's blood type."

"Sherlock —"

"One percent of the population is type AB negative," Sherlock snapped with real feeling. Blood evidence had never bothered him, but thinking that it was _John's_ blood that had been shed and collected and analyzed... He had to pause a moment to regain his composure.

"How do you know Watson's blood type?"

"It's in his files, of course."

Lestrade stared at him. "His — Sherlock, tell me our cybercrime division isn't going to be arresting you for hacking the MoD."

Sherlock sniffed haughtily and went back to rifling through the printouts. "As if they could _catch _me. But no, I saw his file when I was at his flat."

"One percent..." Lestrade shook his head skeptically. "Okay, look. It's a rare blood type, but —"

"Motive, Lestrade," Sherlock interrupted. He put down the autopsy report, absently noting that the victim had a name: Andrei Pogrebnov. "How did you find the scene where Pogrebnov had been killed?"

"Got a tip," Lestrade said, puzzled.

Sherlock nodded as though he'd expected it, though he hadn't bothered to ask earlier. It wasn't important, except as one more detail to support the half-truth he was spinning. "And you called me immediately, which served to get me out of John's flat, leaving him alone."

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. "Go on..."

"John was taken less than twenty-four hours after assisting with Pogrebnov's autopsy. You were tipped off about the other warehouse while we were at the scene where Pogrebnov had been killed." Sherlock paused to stare expectantly at Lestrade, though there really was no way Lestrade could follow the chain of logic and lies that Sherlock was constructing. Finally, Sherlock said, "It was for _me,_ Lestrade! I was meant to find John, probably dead from his injuries!"

"Christ," Lestrade breathed, leaning back in his chair. "Then what happened?"

"The footprints — the _female_ footprints," Sherlock said, finding the appropriate scene of crime photo from the second warehouse. He set it down on the desk. "John's employer, Irene Adler. He must have found a way to contact her for help."

"Easy enough to find out."

Sherlock slapped a hand down on Lestrade's desk phone as he reached for it. "Don't!"

Lestrade frowned at Sherlock, resting his hand on the desk, still too close to the phone for Sherlock's comfort. "If she's a witness, even after the fact —"

"If you question her, they'll know the police are involved, and this time, they'll make certain John is —" He hesitated, the word sticking in his throat, even though it was a necessary part of his deception.

Lestrade heard it anyway. His expression softened and he pulled his hand back, saying, "Okay, Sherlock."

Sherlock's sigh of relief held a disturbing degree of realism. Really, he was letting his emotions get the better of him. "We need to focus on who killed Pogrebnov." Significantly, he looked at the board on Lestrade's wall that tracked open homicides. "Clearing a homicide is more important than an insignificant, unrelated incident with no 'official' victim, isn't it?"

"If we treat it as unrelated, then my team's working with only half the facts," Lestrade protested.

"And John stays safe." Sherlock looked at Lestrade, injecting a subtle measure of desperation into his expression, brow furrowed, eyes widened. "Please."

Without hesitation, Lestrade nodded, giving Sherlock a smile meant to be reassuring. "Yeah. Okay," he promised quietly. His smile grew a bit as he added, "Not like we haven't solved stranger crimes on our own, right?"

Genuinely relieved, Sherlock nodded, turning his attention back to the file. "What have you learned about the victim, then? He's not native to Britain — not with his dental work."

"I have a call in to the Home Office."

"Call them again. Tell them it's a priority..." Sherlock frowned, reading the autopsy test results from a skin sample. Abruptly, he rose, nearly toppling his chair.

"Find something?" Lestrade asked.

"I'll be at Barts," Sherlock said distractedly, juggling the papers from hand to hand as he pulled on his coat. "Text me when you have more information on Pogrebnov."

* * *

"Ah, Mr. Moran. Thank you for coming so quickly," Mycroft said as soon as ex-Colonel Sebastian Moran entered his office.

"Mr. Holmes. What did you need?" Sebastian asked as he sat down across the desk from Mycroft. Even out of his uniform, Sebastian still had a military air about him, from his short-cropped, light hair to the stiff set of his shoulders. His brusque tone and blunt words certainly would win him no allies in diplomatic circles, but Mycroft needed him as an analyst, not as a 'people person', so he let the mild discourtesy pass.

"It seems there's an issue with potential arms dealers operating within our borders," Mycroft explained, sliding a memory stick across his desk. "I believe you're from Portadown, yes?"

Sebastian's light blue eyes narrowed as he nodded once. "It's been some time since I've been back there, but yes."

"Excellent. Take a look at that report. It's raw data, straight from the field, not yet processed by the analysts normally assigned to any IRA-related traffic." Mycroft allowed himself a faint sigh. "We've minimized press coverage of certain incidents in recent years — no need to stir up a panic because of rogue elements. We're currently in talks to dedicate a memorial garden in Mullaghbawn this autumn."

"That's South Armagh Brigade territory," Sebastian said thoughtfully. "Is this 'arms dealing' something to do with them, or is someone else taking over their territory? Disbanded or not, they won't lightly tolerate the presence of a gang."

"I leave that to you to discern. Neither is, of course, optimal." Mycroft looked sternly across the desk. "I don't have to remind you that it's imperative that we keep the peace within our borders as best we can. If the domestics get the scent of blood, who knows where they'll go for help. We've had enough difficulty with mutual aid pacts between our locals and groups in the Middle East and North Africa."

Sebastian nodded sharply, his eyes frosty. "We can't let that happen," he agreed. Though Mycroft hadn't dismissed him, he rose and said, "I'll review this and let you know when I can get you a thorough report."

"Thank you, Mr. Moran."

"Mr. Holmes." With one last nod, Moran showed himself out.

Relieved to have one less problem on his desk, Mycroft turned back to look at his email, just as his screen went blood-red and flashed an alert. The alert was from MI5, not the Joint Terrorism Analysis Centre, which meant it was domestic. He skimmed the codes as his phone lit up with incoming calls from people who'd forgotten to follow proper communications protocols.

After one sharp knock, his door opened and Sebastian walked back in, crossing the office with long, sure strides. "Domestic terror alert — PIRA?"

"Perhaps. It's here in London. Radiation!" Mycroft said, unable to hide his gasp of surprise. He went cold, wondering if he'd missed something critical. In the last six months, information about two potential attacks had crossed his desk but neither had involved a proper nuclear device or a dirty bomb.

"Where was the attack?"

"St. Bartholomew's — _Oh, God,_" Mycroft breathed, fists clenching as he thought of Sherlock, who seemed to spend half his waking hours lurking in the morgue and laboratories there. It was too much to hope that Sherlock wouldn't be there. Anxiously, he stabbed a pen at his phone, activating the intercom. "Get me someone at the epicentre, now!" he barked.

"On it already," Sebastian said, holding his BlackBerry up as he dialed and set it to his ear.

_Good,_ Mycroft thought. The more people trying to get hold of someone who actually knew what was going on, the better. He turned his attention to his monitor, tracking the flood of emails and messages. Almost immediately, the threat was categorized as 'Low', indicating fewer than one thousand people were at risk, but that number was still too high — especially if it included Mycroft's brother. With typical bureaucratic indecision, over the next three minutes, the threat was upgraded to 'Moderate' — up to ten thousand people — and then promptly downgraded to 'Low' again.

Sebastian returned to the desk, offering Mycroft his BlackBerry. "PCSO Rhys Yandle."

"Report, Officer Yandle," Mycroft demanded, having no time for pleasantries.

Fortunately, Sebastian must have pulled rank or intimidated him. The man spoke up without asking Mycroft's identity, a deplorable breach of information security that would have got him fired at any other time. "One of the bodies, sir. Seems it must be radioactive, a little bit, only no one knew it till now, I suppose. Just got here myself, and there's already some emergency response folks here. I'm supposed to be directing traffic away from the hospital, just in case there's more or something, but really, this seems more like a drill, all this flap..."

Mycroft sighed in relief and offered the mobile back to Sebastian. "Do be kind enough to go to St. Bartholomew's and see for yourself what's going on," he requested. "Phone me as soon as you have any relevant information."

Sebastian nodded. "Got it," he said, and hung up on the still-babbling PCSO Yandle as he left the office.

* * *

Four hours later, Sherlock stood outside the morgue, glaring at the decontamination team through the window. The amount of trace radiation left in Pogrebnov's body certainly wouldn't _hurt_ anyone at this point — people were exposed to more radiation walking through the park or eating a banana — so this fuss was utterly pointless and interfering with his ability to get work done. But no one seemed willing to accept that reality.

Were people seriously thinking that this was indication of a dirty bomb in London? Or even that it was another poisoning like Litvinenko? Ridiculous. A man didn't get lesions like that unless he was exposed to low-grade radiation over a long period of time, which was why it was called _chronic _radiation syndrome.

Really, one mention of 'radiation' and people acted like it was the end of the world.

Sherlock sniffed. He was still annoyed that Mycroft had disrupted his last experiment on the subject. Well, Mycroft certainly couldn't complain this time around. Sherlock had acted in the public interest by bringing this to people's attention. Inadvertently, perhaps, and definitely _inconveniently,_ but it still counted. He wondered what he could extract from his brother in return.

When his mobile rang, he checked the display to make certain it wasn't Mycroft calling to complain. Lestrade's name flashed on the screen, so Sherlock answered at once. "What did you find?" he demanded.

"And hello to you, too," Lestrade said pointlessly. "Know anything about Kyrgyzstan?"

"Insignificant international..." Sherlock looked in the direction of the morgue, seeing the pieces of information start to shift into a new configuration.

"Sherlock?"

"Go on," he prompted sharply.

Lestrade grunted in assent. "Looks like our Andrei Pogrebnov was reported kidnapped from the capital, Bishkek. Laundry list of criminal offences, nothing big enough to get him on INTERPOL's watch list, except by association. He's linked to one Raisl Aitmatov, who's gone missing, presumably dead."

Sherlock frowned, wondering if he was going to have to speak to Mycroft _again_. Did he dare risk involving Mycroft in this? He'd never approve of Sherlock becoming emotionally involved with someone, though John could potentially be useful to Mycroft, with his skills. The criminal connection complicated things, but that wouldn't be enough to put Mycroft off.

Then an image flashed in Sherlock's mind, entirely disrupting his train of thought. If he solved this quickly enough, John could come home with him for Easter. Mycroft might not approve of the distraction to Sherlock, but their mother would approve, and for all Mycroft's power, it was Mother who still ruled the family.

"Sherlock?"

Startled, he glared at the mobile before he put it back to his ear. "What do you know about the kidnapping?"

"Professionally done. There were two bodyguards taken out with a single headshot each. The police have no idea where the shooter was — the report actually says 'sniper', which is cop-speak for 'no bloody clue'. This report reads like a badly-translated spy novel."

"Pogrebnov's body showed signs of radioactivity," he said distractedly.

_"What?"_

"Low-grade chronic radiation poisoning — barely enough to create dermal lesions easily mistaken for a less ominous skin condition."

"Radiation poisoning? Here in London?"

"No, do keep up, Lestrade. The man is from _Kyrgyzstan. _Probably half the country's population would make a Geiger counter tick."

Lestrade sighed. "Wonderful. Are _you_ all right?"

"I'm _fine,_" Sherlock snapped. The decontamination team had already questioned him and insisted on scrubbing and testing him, despite his threats. "Email me a copy of everything you have. I need to find out when they're going to let me back in. This delay is pointless."

"It's _radiation,_ Sherlock — Oh, sod it," Lestrade muttered. "I'll call Molly. She's all right, isn't she?"

There was an odd note in Lestrade's voice, but Sherlock dismissed it as irrelevant. "She's fine. She's right over there. Go call her — _after_ you send me those files," he said, and disconnected the call. His mobile rang almost immediately, and he answered without thinking, assuming it was Lestrade ringing back. "What now?"

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, his tone of voice full of disapproval. "Why do I have a domestic terror alert with _your_ name on it?"

"Sod off," he answered, and hung up. The mobile rang again, but he switched it to silent and went instead to speak to the idiots in their hazardous materials suits, to find out when they'd let him get back on with what was important.

* * *

"Hello?"

Jim tried to ignore the way the light, soft voice answering the phone call caused him to shiver. "Hi, John. It's Jim," he said, putting an edge of uncertainty in his voice. He stretched out on the sofa, listening to the sound of a car engine starting outside. Moran's job at SIS was finally paying off.

"Jim. Hello," John repeated, this time sounding much more pleased. "How are you?"

"Good." Jim grinned, twirling what looked like a fancy ballpoint pen between his fingers. With the data on the concealed micro-USB drive, he'd be able to pinpoint the rat in the South Armagh Brigade. Then it was just a matter of deciding what to do about it. Much as Jim's organization profited from chaos, there was something to be said for political stability, at least at home. If nothing else, the restaurants were generally better when there was less risk of a terrorist bombing disrupting dinner.

Jim crossed his feet on the opposite arm of the couch and turned his attention back to John. The phone call was his own reward for a job well done, even if Moran had done all the work. "How about you? Are you feeling better?" he asked, hoping the answer would be yes. Sex with almost anyone would be a good end to the day. Hot, rough sex with the surprisingly attractive Captain John Watson would be that much better.

"A bit tired, I'm afraid. Something of a long day."

Jim frowned up at the ceiling. "Are you not feeling any better? The crutch and all..."

"Oh, I'll probably still be using it through Easter." John sighed. "Soft tissue injuries like this take time to heal, and if I rush, I could end up needing surgery."

"Don't do that," Jim scolded, feeling a stab of disappointment in his gut. "But if you're not too tired, how about dinner?"

"I... probably could do that," John said uncertainly. "Might be nice to get out of my flat for a little while."

"Fantastic. Do you live near the café?" Jim knew the answer, of course, but John didn't know that.

"Just down the block, actually. You?"

"Not really, but I can get there. You shouldn't have to travel." Wondering just how bad John's injuries really were, Jim lowered his voice and suggested, "I could always bring something over to your place."

"No, as I said, it'd be nice to get out," John said a little stiffly. "There's an Italian place not too far away — Angelo's."

Jim sat up, surprised. He knew the restaurant; well, specifically, he knew the owner, a small-time thief and fence who'd gone straight after a brief prison term. He was part of the younger Holmes' network of informants, which was why he'd made it a priority pick-up location for his suicide cabbie a couple of months back, when he'd been testing Sherlock's effectiveness as a police consultant.

"Sounds lovely," he said. "Forty-five minutes?"

* * *

"God, we could have _died,_" Molly said for the sixth time. She shivered at the thought of what everyone was calling a 'near-miss', exaggeration that it was — or perhaps it was just the cold rain. Remembering how careful John had always been, Sherlock looked her over, taking note of her zipper (closed), gloves (on), and scarf (securely wrapped). Again, it was too windy for an umbrella, so the only thing that would help would be to get inside more quickly.

"The radiation levels were entirely insignificant except in the context of our investigation," Sherlock retorted yet again, reminding himself to at least sound patient. Repetition of an event was necessary or part of the healing and recovery process or something like that. He made a mental note to one day ask John; surely he would know.

Actually, he wanted to text John the details of the incident as well as what he'd found, but he didn't want to worry John unnecessarily. John _cared,_ which meant he was disturbingly prone to overreacting, and neither of them could afford that sort of distraction until John's enemies were neutralized.

Sherlock remembered to reach out and open the door for Molly, earning himself a smile of thanks as she ducked under his arm. She stepped into the restaurant, stopped in her tracks, and backed right into him with a little squeak.

"What? What is it?" he demanded, looking over her head into the dimly-lit dining room. Most of the diners were couples enjoying a romantic dinner. Business was apparently thriving if it was that busy on a Monday night.

With surprising strength, Molly crowded him back out of the doorway and away from the restaurant, staring up at him with a stricken look on her face. "It's — it's nothing," she lied artlessly. "Let's just — Ooh look, sandwiches," she said, pointing away from Angelo's, toward the gourmet deli down the block.

"The owner makes methamphetamines in the basement," Sherlock said absently, looking back toward Angelo's. "What did you see in there?"

"Nothing!"

"Molly," he scolded, grasping her shoulders. "Did something scare you?"

"No! No, it's... it's just..." She bit her lip, evading his gaze, and lifted her hands to take hold of his forearms as though offering comfort. "I think... I think I saw John in there."

Sherlock's breath hitched, and for one moment, he was overwhelmed with the desire to go back inside, even just to _see_ John again — to look into his eyes, to measure the progress of his physical recovery, to reassure himself that John was still alive and here in London.

"Sherlock? I'm sorry," Molly said in a small, gentle voice. "But you said... if he broke up with you because someone's after him..."

Reluctantly, Sherlock looked away from Angelo's, feeling a strange hollowness growing inside himself. "No. You're right," he said slowly, taking a deep breath.

He got moving again, taking Molly not to the sandwich place (owner unreliable, high potential that a criminal would be present and recognize Sherlock) but to the French bistro down the block. Molly protested about the expense; distracted, Sherlock assured her it was no trouble. She finally fell silent once they were seated and looking at menus.

Did John know of Sherlock's connection to Angelo? Perhaps he did. Perhaps that was why he'd chosen to go to Angelo's. He might even know what had happened at Barts. This could be John's way of attempting to get in contact with Sherlock, in fact.

The cold, hollow place in Sherlock's chest seemed to shrink as warmth suffused him. This could be John's way of showing Sherlock that he still cared, even if he wouldn't — or couldn't — answer Sherlock's texts. He could use this, he decided, taking out his phone to send Angelo a text.

_Customer John Watson, 5'8", crutch, sling. Need info on him. Priority. Will pay. -SH_

He smiled as he set the phone down, glad to have even this indirect contact with John. Molly looked across the table at him curiously. "Nothing," he said dismissively, looking for their waiter.

* * *

Angelo's response came almost two hours later, as Sherlock let himself into his flat.

_john and his boyfriend just left. nice blokes both of them. sending pictures. no charge. come by tomorrow new lasagna recipe on the house always. thx angelo_

The text came with a photo that Sherlock didn't immediately open. He stared at the little screen, his eyes tracking back to the word 'boyfriend' no matter how he tried to force himself to look elsewhere. First, the girl at the café had mentioned 'John's boyfriend, Jim'. Now, Angelo.

What was John doing?

Sherlock's stomach twisted around the mediocre Basque chicken and red wine, reminding him why he shouldn't eat while on a case — especially one as important as this. He opened the photos and thumbed through them: three photos showing John seated at an intimate, small table with another man, his age or perhaps a bit younger, in a dark blazer over a dusty lavender cardigan and grey T-shirt, throughout the course of dinner; another showing the stranger standing uncertainly near John, who'd been photographed as he was finding his balance with his crutch; and a photograph of the receipt, showing what they'd ordered (a half bottle of red wine, mozzarella pepper starter, vegetarian lasagna, chicken parmesan, two cappuccinos). The last photo showed that they'd paid in cash, leaving a generous tip.

_John's boyfriend, Jim_.

Had it been a date? There were no pictures of them kissing or even holding hands, and their body language seemed comfortable but not intimate. So, perhaps not a date.

He needed more information. He needed to know more about 'John's boyfriend, Jim'. He worked at the cafe, no? He'd start with employment and payroll records.

He closed his eyes, concentrating on every last detail he'd observed while at the café. He'd seen an alarm system, but one that was easily defeated, which meant there was probably nothing of marked value kept onsite when the café was closed. Probably no drive-by security, either. None of it was an obstacle to his skills.

He calculated the tools he needed, what he knew of patrol routes in the area around the café, response times if he accidentally triggered the alarm. He'd have a comfortable seven minutes to get the intelligence he needed, unless an unlucky PCSO was wandering the area. Of course, he had three of Lestrade's warrant cards, just in case things went very badly.

What was the worst that could happen? He'd be arrested for burglary. Compared to what was on his record (or would have been on his record, if not for Mycroft), burglary was barely worth a footnote.

Having a plan in place seemed to help settle his anxiety. Even if John had a boyfriend, there was no reason he and Sherlock couldn't... _What?_ Sherlock wondered as he picked up the anonymous new mobile. John could have all the 'boyfriends' he wanted, as long as he and Sherlock could be together. Sex was a part of it — a part Sherlock wasn't willing to give up — but they were so much _more_ than that. He had no interest in being a 'boyfriend'. He just wanted John.

Surely John felt the same way. Perhaps he'd even brought this 'boyfriend' to Angelo's as part of his cover story, to keep anyone from connecting John to the restaurant and therefore to Angelo's association with Sherlock. Perhaps this 'boyfriend' was a bodyguard or even bait, someone to be sacrificed so John could get away, if he were attacked again.

Sherlock's mood lifted. He smiled as he typed a quick text and sent it to John, wishing that he could call and hear John's voice instead, though this was almost as good.

_The decontamination team said I hadn't been exposed to any significant measure of radiation. I told them that, but they made me scrub down anyway. I'm fine now, I promise._

He sent the text and went to change into dark, anonymous clothes. He wouldn't actually break into the café tonight. Instead, he'd scout the area and verify his information on patrols was still accurate. Most burglars got caught not because of alarm systems but because they weren't careful, but Sherlock knew better. It had been a long while since he'd done any burglary. He hoped he wasn't too badly out of practice.


	6. Chapter 6

**Wednesday, 24 March 2010**

Jim woke slowly, lazily, feeling a pleasant ache across his back and deep in his shoulders. It had been too long since he'd let go his self-restraint as he had last night, and though he hadn't particularly wanted her (Cindy? Sandy? Sami?) she'd been available and willing and the way she'd whispered in his ear and begged for him to spank her had been absolutely filthy. So his security team had scrambled to stay invisible while making certain they got back to his guest-loft safely. He'd finally sent her home around two or three — he didn't allow anyone to actually spend the night — and had collapsed into deep, restful sleep that lasted until the sunlight finally crested the building across the street and slid across the bed.

Last night had been good. Better than good. It was the opposite of what he'd been dreaming about for the past couple of weeks, which was exactly what he needed. He got up from the low futon, smirking when he saw the restraints still fixed to the corners. They were the smallest set he had, barely even used before last night; he'd have to clean and condition the leather later. He probably could have had one of his people do that, but he didn't like crossing business with pleasure. Too much potential for misunderstanding.

Ten minutes later, feeling vaguely more alert, Jim walked into the open kitchen. He flicked on the espresso machine's heater before he turned and opened his laptop. While the laptop booted and connected to the network, he went to see what coffee he had roasted within the last few days. He found a Yemeni roast he'd done three days earlier and put a measure into the grinder, adding a bit of Ethiopian Sidamo from late last week, a reliable standby that would add an almost chocolatey flavor. Because this was his first cup of the morning, he tossed in a dozen high-caffeine robusta beans. Then he went back to his laptop; he wouldn't grind the beans until the espresso machine was heated and ready to steam.

Waking the morning after decent sex was good. Waking the morning after decent sex to find nothing had reached crisis-level during the night was almost perfect. With no top-tier alerts, he absently skimmed through potential business requests, flagging the few that might be interesting enough to warrant a deeper look, and then got down to the day-to-day business.

Jim only stopped when he reached his overnight security briefing, which mentioned a burglary at the café. The police report was attached to the email, so he skipped the summary and went directly to the official report. The break-in had actually been reported by Keenan, who'd opened the store at half four. The front door had been left unlocked and the alarm expertly disabled, which meant this hadn't been a normal smash-and-grab crime of opportunity.

Frowning, Jim ignored the gentle chime that signalled the espresso machine's readiness and instead focused on the rest of the police report. Keenan's initial statement was that nothing had been taken. The safe with the day's petty cash was still locked and the expensive equipment was all still in place. There were scratches on the safe, indicating that the burglar had attempted to open it, but something seemed out of place. Why go for the small safe when there were expensive machines up front? Not that espresso machines had a high street value. Then again, the café didn't make _that_ much money even in a week — certainly not enough to warrant an expert burglary.

But perhaps the intruder had been after the file cabinet, which was disturbing to consider. With the exception of Jim and the café owner, no one knew about the file cabinet.

The café did a brisk business in coffee and snacks, but its real value was buried deep in its import/export books. The café was strictly small-time in terms of money laundering, but that insignificance was a part of its value to Jim. Bigger operations inevitably caught the eye of financial watchdogs.

The records were kept in the file cabinets, along with the café's payroll and employment records. But the financials were stored only long enough for the other to verify the movement of money from one account to another. Those pages were shredded at least twice a month, after the transactions had been reconciled.

He picked up his phone and speed dialed his second-in-command while he started the coffee grinder. It ran for ten seconds, long enough for Jim to hear the sound of the phone being answered, though it was mostly drowned out by the sound of the motor. While it ran, he held a flat metal tamper under the steamer and heated the metal, and then quickly dried it with a flannel.

He dumped the grounds into the filter basket and said, "It's me. I have work for you."

"It's Wednesday," Moran answered. "I'm on my way to my day job."

"Precisely." Jim tapped the filter basket to settle the grounds, and then set the heavy metal tamper in place on top of them. The muscles in his shoulder and arm bunched as he began to steadily apply pressure, compressing the grounds. "I need to know if your boss ran an op on my café last night."

"Last I checked, SIS isn't _that_ interested in coffee, though I could be wrong."

"Two slices behind your knees and you'll never stand again. How would you like to crawl for the rest of your life?" Jim snapped.

Moran was too wise to laugh as though Jim were kidding; they both knew he wasn't. "I'll look," he said evenly, "but I haven't heard anything. As far as I'm aware, the only mention of you in our files happened after your date with Watson."

Jim gritted his teeth. Moran hadn't said outright that going on his first date with John had been a bad idea. He had, however, made a point to let Jim know that he now had a codename (one he rather liked, truth be told) and a footnote entry in an SIS file. So much for anonymity.

He tossed the tamper aside, wiped a few grounds off the basket rim, and fitted the portafilter into the espresso machine, locking it in place. A quick blast of steam heated a cup, which he set under the portafilter spout. "Look again," he ordered. "If it wasn't Holmes, it was —"

He cut off as he ran the steam on autopilot, his mind racing ahead in an intuitive leap. "What's the latest update from our site ten team?"

It took a minute for Moran to respond, long enough for Jim to dump the first shots — the first shots were always a throwaway — and get the portafilter pieces rinsed and dried in preparation for a second shot. "Looks like the younger Holmes left site ten last night at zero-one-hundred and returned at zero-three-forty-one."

Jim wondered if Watson had the same irritating habit of spelling things out in military times or if he could just say 'quarter past one' and 'quarter to four' like a normal person. He ran the grinder while he considered reasons for Sherlock Holmes to arrange for a break-in at the café, but short of their shared interest in John Watson, nothing came to mind.

"Okay, verify my files at work. Contact me if there's an emergency."

"Where will you be?"

With a feral smile, Jim ran the grinder again. "The café has internet access. Maybe I'll wander over that way and check my email."

* * *

_James Moriarty,_ Sherlock thought, staring up at the ceiling. He flexed and clenched his left hand as if he could encourage the nicotine to enter his bloodstream more quickly. He was up to two patches, but surely John would understand.

Because John _wasn't _Moriarty. Instead, he was _dating_ Moriarty.

Carefully, Sherlock thought back to the day he'd met John, bringing back every detail he'd observed, but there were no new conclusions to be drawn. Military service, medical training at Barts, invalided home from a posting in the desert — all correct. Sherlock's initial conclusion — that John needed a flatshare and that he would be an ideal flatmate — was half-right. He would be ideal; he just hadn't needed a flatshare.

And then, their second meeting, the day the serial-suicide cabbie had been shot. There was no doubt in Sherlock's mind that John had been the one to kill him, or that the murder had been a setup. John had been carrying a gun. He'd texted his order (not invitation, but order) for Sherlock to meet him at a location very near the kill site but not in a direct path from it. But the steakhouse was perfectly located for someone fleeing the murder site, heading not towards a convenient street but looking to get lost in residential side streets before coming out elsewhere. The gun he carried was a match for the round taken from the body.

And the rest of the evidence had proven John's link to the cabbie. It was absurd to blame 'coincidence' for the fact that an employee _at John's business_ had been the cabbie's intended victim. No, she'd been bait, not a victim at all, meant to entice the cabbie into bringing her to the kill site. There was the nagging thought that if it had been an _intentional_ kill, John would have used a rifle and not a handgun, but the evidence of his marksmanship bore out the fact that he _could_ kill with a handgun at a truly remarkable distance.

Sherlock's thoughts skipped and stuttered. "Military snipers," he whispered, closing his eyes tightly and shifting that thought into another bin, filing it away with the puzzle of Pogrebnov's bodyguards. He might just have to break into Mycroft's office to gain access to his secure computer systems so he could see about snipers operating in Kyrgyzstan.

Once the side-thought was clear, he returned to the much more pleasant thought of John. The question now was how _Moriarty_ fit into the picture.

They weren't dating. If they were, then the cabbie wouldn't have known Moriarty's name. If John had a romantic relationship with James Moriarty, he wouldn't have involved Moriarty in business. The measures he'd taken to ensure Sherlock's safety were proof that John _protected_ the people he loved and wanted.

So, their 'dating' was an act. Their relationship was nothing more than business. John didn't _love_ James Moriarty.

Sherlock's next breath came easier, as if unknown bands of tension had come loose from around his chest. Even if whatever was between John and Jim included casual sex, that was fine, too — as long as Sherlock came first for John, the way John did for him.

Honest communication was vital in a relationship, or so he'd heard. (He'd also heard that lying was expected, that there was no sex after marriage, and you should never try to sleep with your partner's sibling, all of which just proved that the internet was far from infallible; _no one_ would ever sleep with Mycroft.) So he picked up his new mobile and smiled, allowing himself to experience the emotional rush of closeness as he sent John a text, even though it was nothing but an illusion created by a shift in his brain chemistry.

_Now I know who he is. I hope he's watching out for you, helping you, and doing as you say. I don't understand it all, but I'm getting closer. I promise, I won't give up._

* * *

"Oh, no, love. Let me get that," the clerk at the till (her nametag read Lissa) said cheerily, picking up John's large coffee and breakfast sandwich. John hated feeling useless, and if it hadn't been raining for what felt like a year, he might've rid himself of the crutch so he could hobble around the café unhindered. But the humidity made him feel like someone had stabbed hot pokers into his joints, and he didn't dare risk taking anything stronger than ibuprofen. So he smiled politely and thanked her for carrying his breakfast.

Fortunately, the café was almost empty, leaving his new favorite table available. It was by the back of the shop, with blocked sight-lines that gave him privacy and a nearby electrical outlet. John leaned his crutch against the corner, being careful not to bang his splinted wrist into anything. Out of frustration, he'd left the sling at his flat; he didn't need it for support, but simply for protection to keep him from banging his wrist into anything. Really, he should have been wearing a plaster cast, but he was too damn stubborn. If he needed to shoot, he could rip off the damned splint.

He checked his email first and smiled when he saw he'd got a response from Clara. His smile faded quickly, though, as he read about her intent to return to London after the Easter holiday. There was no way he could warn her about the risk, though — not without a lot of questions he wasn't prepared to answer — so he just answered with a note that he'd love to see her and her baby. They both carefully avoided discussing Harry; she wasn't taking the divorce well at all.

Once he was done, he carefully switched off the wireless and watched his computer disconnect from the internet. Only then did he reach into his pocket for the USB drive DI Paul Dimmock had passed him last night at the pub. As he took it out, his BlackBerry fell free with a clatter, bouncing across the floor.

Swearing under his breath, John twisted to get up. Picking anything up off the floor actually presented a hell of a challenge to him with one knee held straight by the brace and the opposite wrist splinted. A fall could potentially turn the healing fracture in his wrist into a clean break that would require a splint if not surgery.

"I got it!" John looked up to see Jim hurry into the café, dark hair soaked and dripping into his eyes, grinning as he rushed towards him. He swept up the BlackBerry with a flourish, giving it a curious look before he offered it to John with a belated, "Hi. Looks like I'm just in time." He shifted a black rucksack off his shoulder and held it against one leg by a handle near the top.

"My hero," John said, laughing. He took the BlackBerry and dropped it in his pocket, suddenly embarrassed, thinking he'd have to explain why he had two mobiles. "I can't carry an umbrella. What's your excuse?"

"If I carried one, I'd be tempted to stab someone with it on the Tube."

John couldn't argue. He leaned back, looking Jim over, and was surprised to see he was in ratty blue jeans and shirts layered for warmth under his jacket, rather than his usual black uniform. "Not working today?"

"No. I have the day off," he said, lowering his gaze for a moment. "You're not wearing your sling. Are you feeling better?"

"Some, yes." John hesitated, thinking about the USB drive and surveillance. "Look, I have to do a bit of work, maybe an hour or two, but I'm free after..."

Jim shot a questioning look at the empty chair nearby. When John nodded, Jim sat down, bracing the backpack between his feet. "Since you're not a hundred percent," he said slowly, "maybe we could go somewhere and talk?"

"I'd like that, but... well, relationships aren't my thing right now."

Jim lowered his voice and looked directly into John's eyes. "I was thinking more in terms of _negotiation_."

John leaned back in his seat; his lips slowly curved into a smile. "Get it out of the way, hm?" he asked. "You might just be a genius."

Jim blushed and looked down. It seemed to take him a moment to gain his composure. "Mind if I share your table until then? I have some things to do myself, and this is the only table near an outlet."

"Please," John invited, turning his attention to his neglected breakfast sandwich so he could get rid of the plate and make some extra room. He still wanted to look over Paul's information, but the distraction Jim offered was a welcome one.

* * *

Paul Dimmock's copied files included a very detailed forensics scene of crime analysis that was absolutely unhelpful, even if John did understand about three-quarters of it thanks to his medical training. He did take note that Scotland Yard had requested a DNA search of the blood found at the warehouse, but the earliest expected return date was early June. Unfortunately, they'd get an immediate match, thanks to his military service. And while Paul might be willing to get John information that could help him catch whoever was responsible, John doubted that he'd help cover up evidence. God, this was getting more and more complicated.

Had he handled this all wrong from the beginning? If he'd gone to the police but refused to press charges, they couldn't do anything, could they? No, they could — there were laws against consenting to harm, and while he'd vaguely worried about those laws in terms of his job with Irene, he'd never imagined they could be used against him because he'd been attacked. Besides, there was Sherlock to consider. John _couldn't_ let Sherlock know about any of this until it was all settled. The man had no sense of self-preservation in his day-to-day life. If he actually had a target to pursue, he'd probably get himself killed.

Still, he hated himself for the way he'd driven Sherlock away, even if it was for his own good. While it had been a sound strategic decision, John had serious doubts that it had been tactically wise. At least texting had allowed him to curb the worst of Sherlock's excesses.

And then there were the messages. Specifically the radiation one. He'd spent a day and a half trying not to panic at the thought that Sherlock had somehow found radioactive material for his experimentation. Thank God for Paul Dimmock, who'd laughed it off as a fluke. "Yeah, mate. He was involved, only there wasn't enough radioactivity to do more than make the counter tick a bit. You know how people react, though — radiation in London, the world's ending, all that."

The reminder, though, made him glance over toward the counter, where Jim had taken over the espresso machine with the promise of making John a proper coffee. Surreptitiously, John slid the BlackBerry out of his pocket, pressed the power button, and then laid it beside the laptop where it wouldn't be immediately noticed.

He closed the warehouse scene of crime report and opened the report of DI Lestrade's active cases. There were a staggering number of them, and even though Paul had helpfully highlighted the ones he thought Sherlock was working, the list was still intimidatingly long. How was John even supposed to start identifying potential threats to Sherlock?

The mobile finally synced to the network and flashed. The latest text had come just after six. John sighed, wondering if he should just leave the damned thing powered on all the time, at least when he was at home. He kept it powered off so he wouldn't be tracked by the GPS, but if it was Sherlock sending the texts and there was an emergency...

Would John respond to a crisis-text like the ones that Sherlock used to send all the time? He honestly didn't know how he'd react. There was nothing to stop his nameless, faceless enemy from faking an emergency — or manufacturing a real one, for that matter. No, John was better off keeping it powered on only when he was at home and probably already under surveillance.

_Now I know who he is. I hope he's watching out for you, helping you, and doing as you say. I don't understand it all, but I'm getting closer. I promise, I won't give up._

John stared at the text, feeling his heart speed up. His first thought was that it was a reference to his surveillance, before he read the 'doing as you say' part. By the time he got to the end of the text, he was completely baffled. The use of pronouns was simply infuriating, and it took all of his self-restraint not to answer back: _Who is 'he'? Give me a damned name!_

In the end, though, the text didn't feel threatening, nor did it feel like the sender (_Sherlock,_ a corner of his mind whispered) was in danger. So he powered the mobile off and hid it away, just in time. Jim returned to the table not thirty seconds later, carrying two mugs.

"One day, you have to come back to my place," Jim said, setting down one of the mugs. It was one of those huge double-sized mugs covered with a froth of foam and shaved dark chocolate. It smelled like heaven itself. "I'll make you a proper Irish coffee."

"Now you're risking spoiling me," John said, cupping his hands around the mug

Jim looked down shyly, a smirk teasing at his lips. "That's not all I'd like to do — once you're feeling better, that is."

* * *

It was another forty minutes before John finally closed his laptop, satisfied that he'd learned everything he could from Paul's information. "I just want to make one quick call, and then we can go. If you're still interested, that is."

"Love to," Jim said, looking up from his own laptop with a smile.

John pulled on his jacket, surreptitiously returning the UBS drive to the safety of the inner pocket. He picked up his crutch and left the café, though he stayed by the door, sheltered under the awning. He dialed quickly and put his mobile to his ear, glancing up at the dark, rainy sky.

"Adler Consulting, this is Kate speaking."

John smiled as soon as he heard her voice. "Hello, love. What are you doing up at this hour?"

"Waiting for your call, Captain. We've missed you."

"I've missed you, too," he said, heartfelt. "But it's just another week or so, and then I'm back to work. You'll be sick of me soon enough."

"Not until I get to share that shower you promised," she teased, her voice gone wicked and low.

"Bad girl," he scolded, though he was laughing too much for it to be effective. "Listen, can you get me a phone number?"

"Of course. Whose?"

"Sebastian Moran."

"One moment, Captain," she said, and he heard her begin to type.

"Kate... Can you also, ah, email me one of the client profile questionnaires?" he asked a bit awkwardly.

"Certainly. They're meant to be filled out by hand, though, for legal reasons."

John laughed, glancing back into the café for a moment. Jim was watching him but trying not to be obvious about it. "It's personal, not for business."

"Oh," she said slyly. "Well, congratulations, Captain."

He blushed at her teasing tone, which was ridiculous considering that she was in charge of scheduling his client appointments. But while she was playful in private, she was the soul of discretion at any other time. And John did need somewhere private, where he and Jim could talk without being overheard or interrupted.

"Actually, Kate, would there be any problem if I did this at my office? Will you be there today?"

"I'm here now, actually. Miss Adler will be here in about an hour. Come by whenever you'd like."

"I hate to mix business and personal life, but I can't do this at my flat." He didn't elaborate, but he'd told her that he suspected his flat was bugged.

"Of course, Captain. I'll have tea ready for you," she promised.

He smiled. "Thanks, love. It's freezing out."

"I'm texting Colonel Moran's number to you right... now."

He saved Colonel Moran's number into his contact list, thanked Kate, and disconnected. The chilly rain was getting to him, so he dialed immediately, hoping to get back inside quickly.

"Moran," a deep voice answered. John recognized it at once from briefings half a world away.

"Colonel, Captain Watson here. Sorry to disturb you."

"Watson? No, not at all. What can I do for you? Everything all right with Irene?"

"Yes, sir. She's doing just fine."

Moran chuckled quietly. "Very good. So, what do you need, Watson?"

John took a deep breath, glancing around. No one seemed to be paying him any particular attention, but he still kept his voice low. "I've run into a spot of trouble, sir, and was hoping you could advise me..."

* * *

It was nearly three before Jim got the opportunity to call Moran from the taxi taking him to one of his safehouses. His spontaneous visit to the café had turned into spending half the day with John — a pleasant enough distraction, though it meant he had a backlog of dozens of emails.

Still, the day hadn't been wasted, and not just because of the fascinating, professional-quality dossier he'd filled out on himself, including an (almost) accurate medical history and a detailed list of the sexual preferences that were in line with the persona he'd crafted to catch John's eye. More interesting was what he'd glimpsed on John's laptop earlier that morning. John had taken care to sit in the corner of the room so he could keep the screen hidden from all angles. Jim had finally resorted to the somewhat juvenile technique of arranging to spill coffee just so he could get a quick glimpse while fumbling to clean up the mess. Apparently, John had been reading over police reports from Scotland Yard. That explained Dimmock's presence at the pub the other night; he was passing intel to John. More importantly, Jim had spotted DI Lestrade's name on the report.

Jim was coming across Lestrade's name a little too often for his liking.

"A few things," he said as soon as Moran answered. "First, we're upgrading Greg" — he trusted Moran would know exactly who he meant — "to a possible target. I want to know everything he does that involves John or the two brothers."

"This is going to get expensive," Moran warned.

"I don't care. This could all blow up in our faces at any time. I want to be prepared."

"That's why I enjoy working with you. You don't let expense get in the way of professionalism."

Jim grinned. "I'm not the government."

Moran barked out a laugh. "What next?"

"Remember the DI who met John at the pub?"

"Dimmock."

"Right. Get me everything you can on him. He may be an ally."

"Hmm. Right. What else?"

"I'm going to need you the day after Easter. Well, the night after."

"London or elsewhere? We'll be playing catch-up at work," Moran answered flatly.

"The loft. I want you on guard in the building across the street." He glanced at the cabbie and left it at that.

"Uh huh." Moran fell silent for a moment, though Jim said nothing further. "Right, then. You should know I'm busy tonight."

"This matters to me why?"

"Because I have a dinner appointment with Watson."

Startled, Jim asked, "What? Why?"

"He asked for my advice." Moran laughed, a grim, cold sound. "He said he was assaulted and wants my help determining who's responsible."

Jim took a deep breath, examining this new twist, wondering how he could best make use of it. This might be a good time to bring John into the organization, offering access to Jim's resources in exchange for John's loyalty. But some instinct told him it was too soon after the attack. John would still be on his guard. Jim had to win his trust first, to show that he wasn't John's enemy.

"And?" he finally prompted.

"He's one of mine," Moran said without hesitation. "As long as it doesn't complicate things too much, I'm going to help him."

"I want to know everything that happens."

"I'm not meeting him as one of your contractors."

Glancing ahead at the cabbie, Jim held back his angry retort and took a deep, calming breath. He'd already had one unexpected prize today — access to Irene Adler's place of business. The two hours he'd spent there had included a brief tour of some interesting rooms and a glimpse at her much more interesting security system. Already, Jim was putting together a mental list of assets required to break in and get access to her network. If things didn't work out with John, Jim could make a nice profit off Adler's client files.

"This isn't business," he finally told Moran. "It's personal."

"Whatever game you're playing —"

"It's not a _game,_" Jim snapped. He rubbed at the back of his neck and lowered his voice to a more reasonable level. "We negotiated a change in our relationship."

Moran's laugh told Jim that he'd caught the nuances in his phrasing. "Really. You do know his preferences, don't you?"

"Just call me afterwards and tell me everything that you two discuss," he ordered and hung up, done with being reasonable. Moran's responsibility to Watson had ended the day they'd both left military service. Now, no matter what Moran thought, John was Jim's — at least for one night in the not-too-distant future.

* * *

The Churchill Club was named not for Winston Churchill but for the Duke of Marlborough. The building had been commissioned in honor of the Whitsunday victory of 1706, commemorating the British defeat of the French at Ramillies and the Duke's subsequent conquest of the Spanish Netherlands. John had time to read as much on the plaque mounted in the foyer, between when a valet had disappeared with his military ID card and returned, apparently satisfied with both his identity and his right to be present.

A waiter or servant in a subdued black suit brought John into a dining hall of high-backed chairs and white tablecloths. Narrow, arched windows overlooked a small private garden, illuminated by flickering candle lanterns rather than electric lights. The hum of low, masculine voices in subdued conversation was the only background noise. Otherwise, the room was almost silent, with no music or boisterous chatter. There wasn't a single female in sight.

Thanking God that he'd let Irene bully him into going shopping with Kate all those weeks ago, John managed not to feel _too_ out of place. He hadn't been surrounded by this many military officers, current and retired, for ages, and he was willing to bet that he was probably the lowest-ranked of any of them, including some of the waiters.

He recognized Colonel Moran by his silvering hair, buzzed short, and his neat moustache, still trimmed to regulation. When giving briefings at base, Moran had never been one for a dress uniform, sporting the crown and two pips of his rank on standard-issue camo. Now, though, he looked almost unrecognizable in a stylish charcoal suit and burgundy tie.

He rose, pausing a beat so John could set his crutch aside, and then offered his hand and a warm smile. "Captain Watson. Good to see you."

"Sir. Thank you," John said, accepting the handshake. It felt a little surreal, being greeted like an old friend. Until John's phone call earlier that day, they'd never spoken a word to one another — not directly, at least.

John took his seat opposite the Colonel. At a nod, the waiter recited the menu of dishes the cook was willing to prepare that evening. To John's surprise, the offered dishes were nothing fancier than common English pub fare. Moran must have caught his expression; after they ordered, he confided quietly, "We're military men, Watson. Leave the French food for those poncey intellectuals at the Diogenes."

John laughed, a little of the tension in his chest unknotting. "Thank goodness we're above all that," he said, pointedly looking around at the elegant, understated decor.

Moran grinned, the expression taking ten years off him. "Come now, it's not like you haven't had your own taste of the good life. Or would you rather be slumming it at some basement play party? Irene's no slouch when it comes to the little luxuries."

Before even calling the Colonel, John had decided there was no point in letting anything said embarrass him. Socially, Moran had a reputation for being blunt bordering on offensive; the kindest description would be 'aggressively dominant'. John had dealt with that type before, though never with the actual strictures of military rank to get in the way.

So he just smiled and said, "You can see that just by looking at Kate."

"God, yes." Moran looked to the side and made a little motion with his hand, as if beckoning the waiter over. He didn't continue until the waiter had set down their drinks and left again. "What I wouldn't give to get my hands on her some night, but Irene's not the type to share."

It wasn't John's place to explain that the relationship between Irene and Kate went beyond any sort of power exchange. "If she were yours, would you?" he asked instead, tasting the scotch that Moran had insisted he try. It was surprisingly smooth, tasting of smoke and peat, and John resolved to be very, very careful with his drinking tonight.

"Hell, no," Moran agreed, with a drink of his own. "So how's your family? Doing well? Happy that you're back, mostly in one piece?"

Apparently, he hadn't looked up John's file, or he would have asked about Harry by name. John shrugged, saying, "It's always a relief to the civilians, but they don't really understand, do they, Colonel?"

"No, not at all," he said a bit wistfully. He took another sip of scotch and gestured at the crutch. "So what the hell happened to you? I thought we sent you home in better condition than that."

_Not much for small talk,_ John thought, a little relieved about that. "It happened on the eighth of March. It had the feel of a military operation, sir. Very professional."

Moran's light blue eyes went sharp, focused entirely on John. "What exactly happened?"

Over the next hour, John barely tasted what he was certain was an excellent meal of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding as he laid out the details of the kidnapping and subsequent interrogation, hiding nothing. Moran knew how to listen and knew when to interrupt with questions, building a picture of the entire event, helping John to recall things he'd either forgotten or missed.

After the waiter cleared away their dishes, John said, "I've identified two people who are definitely following me, and another two who may or may not be. I'm watching every text, call, and email. My flat's probably bugged, but I trust that the office is clean. I'm certain Irene takes precautions."

"The _office?_" Moran asked. "That's what you call it?"

John couldn't help but laugh. "It _is_ my job, Colonel — and thanks for that, by the way. The recommendation, that is."

"I heard good things about you, over there."

"Thank you, sir."

Moran looked at him steadily, before letting out a humorless laugh. "Whatever you heard about me is probably close to the truth," he said bluntly. "I 'retired' because there was an incident with one of my subs."

More than an 'incident', John knew, given Moran's rank, his years in command, and his almost legendary reputation as a sniper. It would have taken one hell of a scandal to get Moran forcibly retired.

"Irene trusted your judgement enough to make me an offer, sir. Anything else isn't my concern," he said very carefully. One terrifyingly competent enemy was more than enough for John, at least until he recovered.

For a moment, Moran bared his teeth in a grin. Then he shrugged and finished his drink, saying, "I had to cut a scene short. Emergency briefing. Apparently, she had some sort of... _issue_." He made an indistinct gesture with one hand. "Went back to her quarters and shot herself. There was talk of rape charges based on the postmortem, until her roommate offered to testify about her preferences."

"Christ," John breathed. Normally, he would've felt outrage on the part of the victim — at the very least, Moran should have arranged for someone to sit with her, knowing how jarring it could be to have an intense scene end so abruptly — but this struck far too close to home.

As if reading John's thoughts, Moran nodded gravely. "Back to you, though. You have any idea? Anywhere to start?"

"The only thing I've come up with is that he's a jealous stalker or something. Sherlock's got a website, and the internet does funny things to people."

Moran nodded thoughtfully. "You're probably tempted to make contact with him, but don't. You did the right thing, keeping him out of the line of fire."

Hearing that didn't help the memory of Sherlock's face as John's harsh rejection had sunk in, but John nodded impassively. "I've learned all I can on my own, sir. Unless I force a confrontation..."

"Tempting, but let's hold that in reserve, at least until you're able to handle it," Moran advised with another nod toward the crutch. "You're making yourself less of a target?"

"Yes, sir. I'm, ah... Well, it's not a relationship, but I've found someone to spend time with."

"Good. I can ask around, see if anyone's running any in-country ops under the radar, misallocating government resources, that sort of thing," Moran offered, looking steadily across the table.

This had been John's intent, but he still hesitated for a moment. To this point, all they'd done was talk. John's debt to Colonel Moran wouldn't go beyond owing him a nice dinner somewhere — a perfectly normal social obligation between colleagues. If he accepted, though, he had no idea what Moran would ask of him in future. But he had few allies and fewer options, and unless he was willing to surrender forever, he had no choice.

"Yes, sir," he said, meeting Moran's gaze. "Whatever you can find out, I'd be grateful."

Moran smiled and signaled the waiter to refill their drinks, saying, "Consider it done, Watson."


	7. Chapter 7

**Thursday, 25 March 2010**

"Excuse me, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Moran to see you."

Surprised, Mycroft glanced at his computer, wondering if he had anything else scheduled. There were no pressing meetings — he was currently making a point of not being at a conference on multiculturalism — so he turned back to the intercom. "Send him in."

Sebastian entered, his gait a bit more brisk than usual, his expression ominously severe. "Mr. Holmes," he said, and the formality was delivered simply because it was required. Without waiting for a response, Sebastian launched into what was apparently the reason for his visit: "Why am I being required to fill out a Watched Person Contact Report?"

"Traditionally, because one has met with the known agent of a hostile power," Mycroft said, puzzled and not enjoying it. Sebastian was looming, so Mycroft pointed him to the guest chair and asked, "With whom did you meet, Mr. Moran?"

He was angry, not guilty; Mycroft could see it in his direct glare. "No one! I spent the evening at the Churchill Club with a hundred other officers, every one of them trusted and vetted by the MoD."

Well, that was easy enough to look up. The Churchill Club was a private organization, but that had never stopped Mycroft's intelligence gatherers. "Allow me a moment to investigate," he said, biting back a sigh. Perhaps the conference would have been a better alternative after all. Sebastian Moran had his faults, but neither bad judgement nor questionable sexual practices made a traitor.

As Sebastian's supervisor, Mycroft was copied on all security alerts, but something as minor as a WPCR would hardly get his attention. He had agents who dealt with watched persons every day; that was the whole point of his division, in fact: to _watch_ potential threats. It took Mycroft just under two minutes of sorting to find the relevant email.

When he did, he frowned.

"Captain John Hamish Watson," he said, glancing at Moran.

His reaction was immediate and open. "One of mine, from Afghanistan. Why is he on the SIS watch list?"

Mycroft raised his brows as though puzzled and turned back to his computer, typing for a moment. He drew out the search while tracking the progress of Sebastian's anger. It didn't grow — he wasn't _anxious_ — but it didn't ebb as it would have if he'd been convinced of his innocence. Of course, there could be other reasons, even something as trivial as a bad night's sleep or too little morning coffee, but an emotional response to a charged, potentially career-affecting situation was the most likely. Then again, he'd already done far more to affect his career than simply meet with an old comrade-in-arms.

Unless he was engaging in inappropriate relations with Watson.

That thought was horrifying enough that he abandoned the pretence of searching his files and turned back to Moran. "It seems he's been recommended as a potential recruit," he lied smoothly. "All part of the background check process."

Sebastian's expression flickered as though he'd caught Mycroft's lie, which would be surprising. A lifetime of dealing with his parents, his brother, and a string of government officials had taught Mycroft to hide his tells almost perfectly.

What did Sebastian know?

Slowly, Sebastian nodded and exhaled, his shoulders relaxing marginally. "You could have asked directly, in that case," he said, a hint of accusation in his tone. "You won't find a better soldier, but he's not suited for working in government."

"Oh? I was under the impression that you like him."

"He speaks his mind, Mr. Holmes." Sebastian's smile was grim and feral. "If he'd stayed in, he never would have made it past Captain. If he can't be in the field, he's better off in the private sector."

"Well, then. I'll make a note of it. Please do fill out your contact report, Mr. Moran."

Sebastian left with just a nod. Mycroft watched him walk — less aggressive but still angry. No, not angry. _Wary,_ as though expecting to be attacked, verbally if not physically. As though Mycroft were his enemy.

Had he picked up on Mycroft's distaste for his private lifestyle? Mycroft's shift in his feelings was a recent change — just over two weeks, in fact — and he'd tried to keep his dislike out of the office. After all, Sebastian hadn't been the one who'd made the mistake of targeting Mycroft's brother.

Still, perhaps something of Mycroft's thoughts had crept through. He'd have to be more careful in the future. For now, though, this association between Sebastian and Watson required further investigation, and he only had a week in which to accomplish it. To date, Watson had been careful to avoid any association with Sherlock, and surveillance was still set to end on the first of next month.

* * *

Jim watched out of the corner of his eye as the security guard came around the corner, barely even glancing around before he disappeared down the hall. The pencil in Jim's hand never paused, scratching lines over the sketchpad, forming a pleasing geometric shape that had nothing to do with the statue nearby. If anyone asked, he was prepared to give a mind-numbingly boring explanation about modernist interpretation of classic sculpture, but no one was dull enough to even be curious.

Subtly, he touched a button on his phone, ending the countdown. This was the type of reconnaissance he'd normally trust to someone else, except the price tag on the job ensured his personal attention. He wouldn't actually _steal_ the piece, but he'd handle the prep-work.

The security guard wouldn't be back for another eleven minutes, if the rotation held up, so Jim slid his pencil into the spine of his sketchbook and stretched his neck, easing the ache. It was twenty past five, so he called Moran for the second and last time today. The first call had rung through to voicemail, which only happened if Moran was in a meeting at his day job. There was no excuse not to answer now, though, after hours.

Voicemail again. Moran wasn't unavailable; this was intentional.

Grimly, Jim dialed another number and set the phone to his ear. As soon as his agent answered, he said, "Drive-by, site thirteen. Report immediately." He hung up without waiting for the expected confirmation.

The guard made another pass, the details recorded meticulously on Jim's phone.

The sketch darkened in what could, with some imagination, be perceived as a replication of the shadow on the right side of the statue.

Finally, his mobile rang. He checked the incoming call and answered brusquely: "Report."

"Contact aborted. Emergency signal three, sir."

"Leave the area immediately. You're on vacation for the next two weeks."

"Yes, sir." His agent rang off.

Jim forced himself to stay relaxed even as his senses went hyper-alert. Emergency signal three — blinds lowered to cover all but the bottom two rows of window glass, vanes horizontal — was the type of old-fashioned visual warning that spies had been using probably since the days of ancient Rome. It was used to warn off any contact because the subject — in this case, Moran — suspected hostile surveillance. Moran would be the one to reestablish secure communication, once he felt safe.

There was nothing Jim could do immediately. He suspected this had to do with Moran's job at SIS. Perhaps Moran had been incautious in his little arms dealing sideline. Perhaps he'd chafed at Jim's restrictions and had decided to go after Holmes himself.

Or it was very possible that Moran had been turned, and the warn-off was meant to make Jim think Moran was still on his side.

Jim closed his eyes, telling himself to resist the urge to call John Watson. It was too soon, though if he _had_ lost Moran, either to carelessness or treachery, he'd have to accelerate that timeline. For now, though, John was nothing more than a friend and future scene partner.

No, not even that. He couldn't risk being helpless with anyone, not even Watson, without someone on overwatch, and he wasn't comfortable trusting anyone but Moran to keep things professional.

The sound of shuffling loafers, echoing loudly in the otherwise-silent gallery, announced the return of the security guard, and Jim automatically marked the time on his mobile. Tonight, he'd go straight to the airfield. He'd take a long weekend at one of his distant safehouses, one he'd never mentioned to Moran. He'd come back once it was safe to do so, even if it took a few weeks.

Worst case, he'd invite John to spend the week after Easter with him.

* * *

**Saturday, 27 March 2010**

The moment Lestrade opened the door to his tiny flat, Sherlock swept in like a tsunami, coat billowing, scarf flying in the direction of the sofa. "What do an assassination in Kyrgyzstan, chronic radiation poisoning, and a military officer's club have in common?" he demanded, glaring at Lestrade as if it — whatever _it_ was — had been entirely his fault.

More than half-asleep, it took some doing for Lestrade to remind himself how heartbreaking Sherlock's silent-and-depressed phase had been. "It's not even six in the morning," he protested, wondering if this was a nightmare.

"You're at work by six most mornings."

"Not bloody Saturdays!"

Sherlock threw off his overcoat and sank down onto the sofa. For not-yet-six, the man was impeccably dressed as always, his purple shirt straining at the buttons, black suit neatly creased and immaculate, as though lint wouldn't have the audacity to cling to the fibres.

"Just get yourself some coffee. Get me some, too," he ordered, twisting to sprawl on his back. He kicked his feet up over the arm of the sofa and glared up at the ceiling.

"Why aren't you at home?" Lestrade asked, stubbornly standing his ground by the door. He had vague hopes that Sherlock might decide to leave and let him get back to bed, but Sherlock seemed settled in for the duration.

"Mrs. Hudson knows nothing of international crime. You barely do, but that's better than total ignorance."

Coming from Sherlock, that was almost a compliment. At least, that was how Lestrade chose to take it, mostly because the alternative was to hit Sherlock, possibly repeatedly. Scrubbing his hands across his eyes, he surrendered to the chaos of his adopted pet detective and went to make coffee.

Ten minutes later, Lestrade was marginally more awake, thanks to the chance to brush his teeth and brew the strongest pot of coffee he could manage. He added judicious sugar to both of their mugs and put up some toast, which was all he had the energy to cook at the moment. He'd scramble some eggs later, since it was looking more and more like he wasn't going back to bed.

"Go on."

"It's next to China," Sherlock said, giving him a contemptuous glare. He was still on his back, with the coffee mug resting on his chest despite the heat, his long fingers wrapped around the handle. "_China!_ Why? Is that significant?"

"I didn't do it," Lestrade pointed out. It didn't make sense, but really, none of this actually made sense.

"It has to be," Sherlock continued as though he hadn't heard Lestrade. "Smuggling. Opium, heroin, pharmaceutical derivatives."

A thin thread of fear twisted through Lestrade. He watched Sherlock carefully, now fully awake, and searched for any sign that he was using again. Loss did strange things to people, and Sherlock was stranger than most.

"Do stop," Sherlock said, turning to face Lestrade so he could more effectively sneer. "I'm _solving_ a crime, not looking to arrange one."

"_What_ crime? And what's this got to do with" — he hesitated, not wanting to start Sherlock's day on the wrong foot — "with John?" he finished tentatively.

"Everything." Sherlock looked at him for a single heartbeat before he turned his attention back to the ceiling. One long finger tapped on the coffee mug resting on his chest. "The assassination of Andrei Pogrebnov's bodyguards in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan."

It took Lestrade a moment to catch up. What did the dead man have to do with Watson, other than the fact that John had helped out with the autopsy. "Our jellyfish corpse. The _radioactive_ jellyfish corpse," he elaborated, wondering if that was the point. Was Sherlock worried because John had been exposed to radiation? He himself had said (and the experts had confirmed) that the exposure was negligible.

"Portuguese man o'war," Sherlock corrected.

Lestrade sighed and took a swig of his coffee. It burned his tongue, but the need for caffeine was approaching a critical level. "SIS is looking into the terror connection."

"They're obsessed with dirty bombs." Sherlock let go of the mug to wave a hand dismissively, the gesture oddly graceful despite his undignified pose. "This isn't about terror. It's about _crime_."

Leaning back in his chair, Lestrade racked his still-sluggish brain for anything that might be relevant. There wasn't much he could do about Sherlock's failed relationship or about international terrorists, but crime, he could definitely handle. Looked at that way, the next question was logical. "What about further back in the supply chain? Radioactive materials for trade, nuke disposal — Didn't a bunch of bombs go missing from Russia?"

"Radioactive _waste,_" Sherlock said thoughtfully. "Pogrebnov was in industry, but _which_ industry?"

"Start over. What did you learn?"

"I didn't _learn,_" Sherlock corrected. "I deduced — correctly."

Gritting his teeth, Lestrade took a deep breath, followed by another swig of sweet, strong coffee. It wasn't helping yet. "How about you figure out why the hell he was killed the way he was? It's not exactly normal. And if the killer wanted it to look like an accident, his body would've been dumped in the ocean, not in London."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "It wasn't supposed to look like an accident. It was a message," he said quietly.

"For?"

"His boss — Raisl Aitmatov. He's gone missing. He's gone _into hiding_. He must have done."

"Okay..."

"Someone profited by it. Who? And _how?_ It can't have been a local hit. Aitmatov was powerful — too powerful. Everyone local was scared to go against him." He smiled grimly. "Hiring an assassin to go after one of Aitmatov's men would be almost as difficult as me hiring one to go after Mycroft."

"God," Lestrade groaned. "Tell me you didn't just admit —"

"Of course not. If I wanted Mycroft dead, I'd do it myself. He's irritating, but he can be useful, and his death would upset our mother."

With Sherlock, even the smallest victory counted for something. Glad he wouldn't be arresting Sherlock for conspiracy to commit murder (yet), Lestrade sat back and worked on getting through his coffee.

"Afghanistan," Sherlock said a few minutes later, just as Lestrade was considering getting a refill.

"What about it?"

"It doesn't share a border, but it _is_ close."

Lestrade stared at Sherlock expectantly. When no additional information was forthcoming, he gave in and went to refill his mug. Sherlock certainly was taking an odd path with this case: first Watson, now Pogrebnov. Was Sherlock imagining a connection in his desperate search for some reason Watson wasn't willing to communicate with him? If he'd never had a date before, then he'd never had anyone break up with him.

At Molly's, after his — well, Lestrade still hesitated to call it a 'breakdown', but that was the only way it could be described — Sherlock had asked for all of their help. Demanded, actually. He'd insisted that some external force had come between him and John, and he needed time and assistance to find out the details. Lestrade had been willing to help, thinking that perhaps someone had warned John away from Sherlock, and this could all be settled with a quick chat at the pub. Only now, Sherlock was complicating things beyond even Lestrade's willingness to play along.

Was Sherlock's unwillingness to accept the end of their relationship making him imagine connections that weren't there? Or was Lestrade just failing to follow the twists of logic that Sherlock couldn't be arsed to explain?

Sherlock sat up, got to his feet, and followed. "That could be the connection. Someone who was there might know the assassin. Or it could have been a military hit. It was professionally done."

"The thing with the" — he caught himself before he could say _jellyfish_ — "man o'war?"

Sherlock stuck his mug in front of Lestrade for a refill. He'd finished about half of it, so Lestrade topped it off and poured the rest into his own mug. He'd bought the small coffee pot in hopes of one day returning to the family-size pot at his house, but it didn't look like he'd be sharing coffee with his soon-to-be-ex-wife any time soon.

"The assassination of the bodyguards. One sniper took out two alert bodyguards in the ten feet between the door and the car waiting on the street. A team took Pogrebnov right in front of the driver. Days later, he shows up in London, dead from a fatal overdose of cytotoxins."

"Organized crime, private militia — that sort of thing is all the rage out there, isn't it?"

"Mmm, yes, all but the sniper," Sherlock said thoughtfully as he poured an unhealthy amount of sugar into his coffee. "Very few organizations can provide enough work or funding to keep a sniper busy full-time. He was probably freelance, in it just for the — _Oh,_" he breathed, setting down the plastic tub of sugar with a dull _thunk_.

Lestrade couldn't help but feel a jealous little surge of excitement as he watched Sherlock's expression change, his eyes nearly glowing as though illuminated from within. That moment of revelation wasn't new to him — he was a competent enough detective for most cases — but every single time, Sherlock's realizations left Lestrade in awe.

"Who _can_ employ a sniper full-time?" He put down his mug almost at the edge of the counter and spun, heading right for where he'd thrown his coat.

Lestrade went after him, feeling lost. "The army?"

"Yes!" Sherlock swept up his coat and scarf, and then threw open the door.

"Sherlock! What —"

"The army! _The sniper was military!_" Sherlock said, his grin manic, and rushed out towards the staircase.

Lestrade pushed the door closed and leaned against it, scrubbing a hand across his eyes as if he could clear away the last fog of sleep that was clinging to his thoughts. He tried to remember everything he'd seen in Watson's box of military decorations, all the service ribbons and awards and the beret. Watson was a doctor, but he hadn't served in a base hospital somewhere well behind the lines.

_Christ,_ Lestrade thought, finally catching up with Sherlock. Had John Watson been the sniper who'd killed the dead man's bodyguards?

* * *

Boredom was a poisonous thing when combined with the constant, low-grade tension of being watched. John had identified three definite surveillance operatives and two more possibles. They were damned good, but had become a bit sloppy over the last week or so, which told him they no longer considered him a threat. Hopefully that meant they'd be winding down their operation soon. Surely he wasn't worth watching forever, especially since he'd carefully avoided any contact with Sherlock.

But for now, they were out there, and though he told himself it was just his imagination, he could feel them watching, waiting. Then again, there was a good chance it wasn't just imagination; he'd deliberately not searched for surveillance devices, beyond his first cursory sweep.

The last time he'd dealt with this sort of tense waiting had been Afghanistan. Out on patrol, he'd known that the odds were good that his section was going to get attacked, somewhere, some time. But those patrols _ended_. You got back to base and you could sleep and shower and not have that tension curling through your gut and up into your shoulders, locking up your spine with aches, making you twitch at every shadow.

But this... this didn't have an end. He was _always_ being watched — at home and out with friends, when he was eating, sleeping, showering. Always.

He'd tried to relax. He was a doctor. He'd read the studies about how persistent anxiety slowed healing to a crawl, not to mention its overall effect on alertness and energy. He knew that the best thing for him, at least physically, was to relax, cautiously exercise, and resist the urge to go running around London, trying to work out who had abducted him.

Relax. God, it felt impossible. He paced, driving himself to take another few steps without the crutch, lurching like a zombie from the support of his hideously out-of-place settee to his armchair to the desk and back again, pushing his physical recovery out of sheer desperation to _do something_. He knew that Bill would probably shout at him for pushing himself this way — any medical professional would.

Ironic, that. He was doing precisely what _Sherlock_ most likely would do in his position, trapped into a holding pattern. Except Sherlock wouldn't try to order him down, as John would have if their positions were reversed. Sherlock would probably try using logic instead, but logic had nothing to do with the purely emotional, unreasonable state that was consuming John.

They'd taken him from his home. Short of finding some deep concrete bunker and hiding out like one of those militia groups, bristling with firepower and hidden behind miles of barbed wire and attack dogs, John wasn't quite certain how he was _ever_ going to actually relax again. He'd taken reasonable precautions, locking the flat door and windows, keeping a weapon close at hand (despite it being illegal to do so), and he'd been taken as easily as a child kidnapped from the park. Easier, in fact, since the bold daylight attack had been executed flawlessly to leave no witnesses at all.

To make matters worse, all of his sources had turned up no information at all. No one was recruiting military specialists for any in-country ops, though John, Murray, and Vanterpool had all received identical job offers from an American military security firm that dealt with 'issues' in small, little-known nations with governments made wealthy by natural deposits of oil, gold, or diamonds. John might have even been tempted by the offered salary — and by the opportunity to get back in the thick of things — if not for all this.

Finally, the ache in his knee drove him to sit in the relative comfort of his armchair. He picked up the old, tattered paperback that had stayed with him through schooling and training and postings throughout the world and back to London again. Anyone who didn't know him would probably think him crazy for considering H.P. Lovecraft's compiled tales of the Elder Gods to be comforting, but for John, impossible eldritch horror was absurd enough to usually distract him from reality.

But even _The Cats of Ulthar_ couldn't keep his mind engaged for long, and he finally gave it up as a bad job and instead went to put up some tea. _One week,_ he reminded himself. One week and he'd be off the damned crutch and finally getting back in shape. His gym membership was already paid up. How he was going to get through the week, he had no idea, but somehow, he'd manage. He had no choice.

* * *

**Thursday, 1 April, 2010**

The knock was barely a light tap of short, manicured fingernails scratching on wood, but the sound registered on Mycroft's consciousness all the same. "Come in," he said, not particularly raising his voice.

His assistant entered, eyes lowered to the screen of her BlackBerry. "A last few matters, sir, before the holiday weekend."

"By all means," he invited. Best to get through as much business tonight as possible. He already felt mildly ill at the thought of what would be awaiting him by the Monday after Easter, but the family rules were strictly enforced: No work during the holidays.

Her fingers flew over the keyboard. "I've received a draft of President Karzai's speech responding to the fraud issue. I believe it will be acceptable."

Mycroft sighed, glancing at the email she sent as she spoke. "Acceptable, yes. Will you be available this weekend if there are any incidents?"

There was a hint of reprimand in her tone as she said, "I'm getting married this weekend, sir."

"Oh, yes. That business." Mycroft gave a false, slight smile as he shifted in his seat. He was known as much for his lack of sentiment as for his absolute dedication to social niceties, and he could see uncertainty in her eyes: Which path would he follow? "Go on."

"There's a bit of difficulty coming up in Pakistan. The corruption cases."

"Yes, the attorney general will resign. I do hope for someone less malleable in his place, but it's out of my hands, I'm afraid."

She had the grace not to comment on that untruth. Instead, she continued, "Our agent in Venezuela passed along a preliminary agenda for their negotiations with the Russian Prime Minister, but nothing concrete. We're waiting for additional information with the next satellite pass."

"Excellent."

"And finally, Operation TALENT is scheduled to end." She set her BlackBerry in her lap and looked to him for instructions.

Mycroft pressed his fingertips together, tipping his head back to regard the bookshelf across the room. Unfortunately, it did seem Captain Watson had received Mycroft's message. He'd made no attempt to resume contact with Sherlock and had apparently moved on with this new target of his, James Moriarty. A small part of Mycroft had hoped Watson would prove too stubborn and take some action that required more decisive measures, but apparently that wasn't to be.

Well, he had no doubt that if there were any lingering trauma, Sherlock would eventually seek retribution on his own. This weekend at the family home would give Mycroft the chance to subtly offer aid to his brother again. Even though Sherlock had done an admirable job mastering his emotions in his earliest childhood, there was still a chance of some lingering mental trauma — a sort of _'why me?'_ reaction, Mycroft surmised.

"Have the active agents resume their normal duties," he finally said. Since he had a hardcopy of all the files in his personal safe at home, he added, "Destroy all records of TALENT and associated files. Let's put all this unpleasantness in the past, where it belongs."

"Very well." Up came the BlackBerry, and the typing resumed. "Will that be all, sir?"

"Yes. I'm certain we'll have a great deal to do Monday morning."

"I've already prepared my replacement," she said, rising.

Mycroft made a show of frowning. "Replacement?" he asked, his voice taking on a scolding tone. "This is a politically delicate time to be taking a _vacation_."

Serenely, she nodded. "It always is."

"Well, if you insist upon going through with this marriage..." He leaned down and opened the bottom drawer of his desk, removing the package that he'd placed there earlier that morning. "You'll need to keep this with you."

It was rare that he actually surprised his assistant. Her lips pursed thoughtfully, and she slipped the BlackBerry into its rarely-used holster to free her hands. "Sir?" she asked curiously, lifting the box. It was flat and somewhat smaller than a hardcover book. It made of thick, cream-colored parchment and tied with an old gold ribbon.

He gestured for her to proceed, so she slipped the ribbon over the corners and lifted the lid. Her eyes went very wide. "Oh," she breathed, staring down at the necklace resting on black velvet.

"My dear grandmother's," he said, smiling fondly. "I believe it qualifies for both 'something old' and 'something blue'."

"Sir, I couldn't," she protested, her gaze locked to the necklace.

"Consider this my way of attending the happy event, by proxy."

She favored him with a genuine smile and gently closed the lid, hiding away the square-cut sapphire in its antique gold setting. "It will match my dress perfectly."

"Imagine that," he said innocently, and they both laughed.

"Have a lovely Easter, sir, and do give your family my regards."

"And joy to you and your husband-to-be on your wedding," he answered. "I'll see you in two weeks."

"Sir." With one last smile and nod, she left.

Mycroft finished up a few emails, and then lifted his phone to call for a car. It was already half eight, and he'd be leaving early tomorrow morning for the long drive home, assuming he didn't have to chase Sherlock across London. Best to get an early night's sleep, to better be prepared for tomorrow's family drama.


	8. Chapter 8

**Friday, 2 April 2010**

_I'm trapped in a car with only the thought of a holiday weekend with the family to distract me. This could not possibly be more boring._

Sherlock sent the text to John while Mycroft was pacing outside the car, 'stretching his legs' — as if standing and talking on his BlackBerry counted as some form of exercise. Already, the thought of the weekend ahead had Sherlock wishing he'd brought his emergency stash. Just an hour or two of chemically-induced bliss would be a very necessary respite by the time Sunday's trials rolled around.

At least it wasn't Christmas. That was a full two weeks of family-inspired torment, or longer, if the calendar inspired Mother to hold everyone hostage through New Year's Day. By comparison, the Easter holiday was almost tolerable, except for Sunday itself. Mother would insist upon making an appearance at church (for social reasons, not religious) and Sherlock would refuse and Mycroft would attempt to either play mediator or make demands as the 'patriarch' of the family, depending on how his diet was going.

Fortunately, Sherlock had a way around that. He'd acquired a full pound of dark-roasted Kona coffee, bitter and strong and very, very expensive. One sip and Mycroft wouldn't be able to stop himself from loading it with sugar. Sherlock would present it to Mother when they arrived, and she'd surely order it to be brewed some time on Saturday. By Saturday night, Mycroft would be on a sugar-high, his diet forgotten, with the corresponding elevation of his mood, at least until he resumed his diet on Monday. But by then, only his employees would have to suffer with his foul temper.

Mycroft had arranged a car to take them home — nothing so pedestrian as a train for Mycroft, now that first-class service was no longer the luxury it had been back in the era of Queen Victoria. The dark window tint provided perfect cover for Sherlock to swiftly rifle through Mycroft's briefcase. (Really, if he'd wanted the contents _private,_ he would've changed the combination to something less obvious or just installed a biometric lock.) There was the usual assortment of documents, mostly printed emails, all of them covering matters of national security. So much for Mother's prohibition of work over a holiday. Sherlock snapped the briefcase closed and spun the locks back to their original configurations. He'd hold the briefcase in reserve, to show to Mother if Mycroft got out of hand.

Once the driver was finished filling the tank, Mycroft took his seat in the back with Sherlock. They left the petrol station a minute later, both of them in absolute silence. Sherlock ensured his anonymous BlackBerry was hidden away, took out his older, known mobile, and began composing a post for his website on how to deduce the signs of an eating disorder.

* * *

The Holmes branch of the family was significantly smaller than the French Vernets, relatives through the brothers' maternal grandmother, but Sherlock always felt drastically outnumbered and outcast upon his return home, to find the house full of aunts and second cousins and assorted spouses and connected family members, none of whom were even slightly interesting. Some were present for a holiday away from home or because of genuine fondness to the mental torture of a family holiday. Others wanted only to secure an inheritance or the more immediate gain of a family loan. Sherlock read each one's story at a glance: failing student, borderline alcoholic, bored housewife, new mother, overworked office clerk. Every one of them was dull.

Not for the first time, he wondered if he could get away with setting fire to the house. Without an ancestral home, the family gatherings would have to stop, simply because no one else in the family lived anywhere big enough to accommodate everyone.

At least he had his own room, while the cousins and rest of the family were packed two and three to a room. He looked forward to locking himself away in his old sanctuary, and was already mentally composing another text to John as he reluctantly got out of the car.

A handful of children swarmed at them as soon as they were clear of the doors. Sherlock smiled to himself and looked them all over, identifying what he remembered of their family connections. He didn't recall any of them as being intellectually promising, but children were on the whole preferable companions, if one was stuck with family. At least children were honest and easily manipulated into being entertaining, especially when taught how to work in pickpocketing teams.

Then Mother was there, sweeping through the children to greet Mycroft with a kiss to his cheek, and Sherlock had to admit that some tiny fraction of his irritation ebbed upon seeing her. As trying as these holidays were, Mother, at least, had always been a source of rational stability in his life.

He kissed her cheek, breathing in her perfume, and said truthfully, "It's good to see you, Mother."

"And you, dear." She patted his hand and turned to lead them into the house. The children followed in their wake, and Sherlock glanced back at them, noting which ones seemed the most daring — and therefore the most useful for his purposes.

Fortunately, they were given an hour to refresh themselves in the privacy of their old rooms before being subjected to the introductions and interrogations that would follow in over tea in the front parlor. Sherlock unpacked quickly — he'd long since made it clear that the servants weren't to go near his belongings — and then climbed out his open window to sit on the roof overhang below. Someone, presumably the upstairs valet, had already put an ashtray out there for his use.

Smiling to himself, he lit a cigarette and leaned back against the stone tile slope. John would understand if he smoked this weekend, and he'd avoid using nicotine patches unless someone was murdered.

Two cigarettes were all he could manage at the moment, though. He used the ashtray (no sense making extra work for the groundskeepers) and climbed back into his room, where he changed into an appropriate suit and white shirt. He'd pointedly not brought any ties, though occasionally people gave them to him as gifts; the lack of a tie during formal tea would irritate Mycroft, which always brightened his day. Then, braced for the upcoming battle, he went downstairs to the parlor.

* * *

Lady Violet Holmes watched her eldest son blend seamlessly into the carefully-chosen group of relatives and appropriate family allies. She'd already taken him around to introduce him to the handful of ladies she'd invited specifically with him in mind, one of whom would hopefully be a suitable match. He was long past the age of marriage; by now, she should have been a grandmother. Perhaps this would be the year, though. It would be lovely to have a daughter-in-law by Christmas and the heir to the Holmes family name born next autumn, if all went well.

Her youngest son, though... he was more problematic. She'd invited three young ladies who were a bit more adventurous and strong-willed, but she didn't have particularly high hopes. Privately, she suspected he preferred the company of men — well, second to his experiments. His father had been of a similarly scientific mind, which she, being equally well-read, had found very appealing. For years, she'd simply assumed Sherlock had chosen not to go to the trouble of finding himself a wife, choosing instead to dedicate himself solely to his chosen work. Over the past few years, though, she'd begun to consider inviting appropriate young men as well as women, just to give him a broader base from which to choose.

Whoever he ended up choosing would need to be incredibly tolerant. Sherlock knew precisely how to time his entrance, not for maximum attention but to barely skirt the edge of Lady Holmes' ire. He slipped unobtrusively into the parlor just as she was getting ready to ring for one of the servants to fetch him.

Lady Holmes excused herself from the two distant cousins with whom she'd been speaking. Sherlock was lurking in the corner of the room, unnoticed despite his striking appearance. Looking at him made her realize just how similar he was to her side of the family. Mycroft was the very image of her dear husband, Siger, but not Sherlock. He was most definitely her son — height, bone structure, eyes. Even his wealth of dark hair with subtle ginger highlights was reminiscent of her youth, though her hair had long since turned a stately silver-white. At least he'd grown out of his flashy dressing phase and had settled into a more classic style, though she had to hide her smile when she saw he'd omitted a tie, as always.

Really, she couldn't have two sons more different and yet so very much alike. As she approached, she caught the faint smell of cigarette smoke clinging to him, a tasteless habit she wished he'd break. He was thin, but not unhealthily emaciated as he had been during his bouts with cocaine, which was a relief. There were subtle signs of stress in his posture and the suspicious way his gaze darted about, but most of that was directed at Mycroft and therefore not unexpected.

All in all, he was doing well for himself. Apparently, his association with Scotland Yard was proving beneficial, despite Mycroft's objections.

He turned to face her only when she reached his side. "Mother."

"Sherlock," she answered, touching his sleeve. He was as relaxed as he ever got during a family gathering, which wasn't much, but some things simply had to be endured. "There are some people I'd like you to meet."

He looked directly at her and tipped his head slightly, towards the door.

Surprised, she nodded and took his arm. They left without fanfare, crossing the hall. He hesitated, allowing her to lead the way to the library. Two maids were there, dusting in preparation for opening the library after dinner. Now, they left quickly and silently through the back door in the corner.

Sensing that this could turn into an extended discussion, Lady Holmes took a seat by the cold hearth. Even though the nights were still chilly, the fireplaces in the public rooms had all been filled with Easter flowers in bright yellow and white, backed by greenery. It added a lovely fragrance to the downstairs rooms.

Sherlock closed the doors and went to the extent of turning the lock specifically to keep Mycroft at bay; no one else would disturb them. Wondering precisely what was so private, Lady Holmes composed herself and simply watched Sherlock as he crossed the rug in long steps to sit opposite her. He was unusually self-confident and calm, which roused her curiosity. Most of the time, their private talks were more like reluctant confessions: drug use, criminal incidents, and the like.

Now, there was no hesitance, no defensiveness. He simply said, "I know you've hoped for years that I'd be interested in one of your... young women, but I'm not."

Lady Holmes searched his expression. No sign of embarrassment or self-consciousness. He was unusually calm, not even fidgeting, meeting her eyes without his usual habit of looking to the exits as if he could make a quick escape.

"You've met someone."

His smile was barely a twitch at one corner of his mouth, but to her, it was as expressive as a shout. "Possibly."

"A man."

He nodded.

She searched inside herself for any disappointment, but this was simply confirmation of what she'd suspected for some time. And actually, it was something of a relief, knowing that he'd found _someone_ and wouldn't be alone.

"Then there's no need for further introductions," she said, surrendering gracefully to her son's wishes. "Unless you'd like me to make more suitable inquiries?" He'd answered 'possibly', not 'yes', which meant he might be affirming his preferences rather than choosing a specific partner.

He flinched slightly and shook his head. "No."

Interesting. "How long have you known him?"

"Not long."

"Is that why you didn't invite him home with you for the holiday?" she asked curiously, not that Sherlock had ever been one to share his home life. Even during his few short years at uni, he'd never brought a friend home to visit.

"We're not" — he paused, searching for the right wording — "together."

She nodded in sudden understanding. There was a connection between her youngest son and this man of his, but it wasn't what he wanted. Perhaps it had been, perhaps it could be, but for now, it was not.

"Do you want..." She trailed off, leaving the offer unspoken and open. She would help or she would listen or she would step back — whatever her son needed.

He smiled. Shook his head. "I have it under control. Please, don't mention this to anyone — especially not Mycroft."

A weight seemed to leave her chest. She looked at her young, reckless, willful son and saw that he really did have his life in order. "I won't breathe a word. I'm very happy for you."

Suspicion flickered in his eyes as he studied her face, but finally he read the truth of her words. His expression eased and he nodded.

He didn't thank her, but she saw it in his expression. They'd always been close, able to read one another's thoughts.

She smiled in response, silently telling him, _You're welcome._

* * *

**Saturday, 3 April 2010**

Two generations ago, the servants had been housed in the drafty attic. Now, the attic was used solely for long-term storage of unwanted furniture and old paintings — and for the First Annual Meeting of the Holmes Estate Irregulars.

Currently there were five of them lined up in a proper military-style rank. Sherlock smiled to himself, wondering what John would think of his miniature army of commandos. They certainly weren't proper soldiers, but were chosen instead for stealth, reconnaissance, and, to quote those deplorable explosion-prone spy movies, black ops.

"Wiggins," Sherlock said, addressing the eldest of his force, his second cousin once removed, Robert Wiggins. He was twelve and too tall to go unnoticed, having hit a growth spurt some time over the past year. "You're on distraction duty. You'll need to improvise, so think quickly. On my signal. Do you recall it?"

"Start counting when you call for more coffee, sir! When I reach one-hundred-forty-six, _bang!_" he said, throwing up one flattened hand in an approximation of a salute.

"Yes. Do try to not actually _shoot_ anyone," Sherlock added, thinking he probably should check the gun cabinet in the trophy room. Then again, a shotgun blast would certainly do the trick as a distraction. So he nodded and turned to the next member of his squad, tomboy Enola Holmes, age nine, first cousin. "Enola. Your task —"

"Spill my tea on Mr. Mycroft's jacket."

_"Sir,"_ Robert hissed at her in reminder.

She stuck out her tongue — military discipline was lacking in the lower ranks — and added to Sherlock, "Sir," while rolling her eyes expressively.

Sherlock laughed. "William?"

William Russell, age eight-and-three-quarters (he'd been very specific), said, "Hide in his room, nick his wallet, toss it out the window, get out." It was a lot to trust to an eight-year-old, even one who was almost nine, but William was the smallest of the lot and the only one who'd fit under Mycroft's bed.

"Good lad," Sherlock approved before Robert could enforce military rules. "Stephanie? Lesley?" he asked, turning to the two youngest, seven-year-old twins from a branch too distant to be known as anything but 'cousins' except to genealogists.

"If we hear William shout, we run up —" Lesley said carefully.

"Playing hide an' seek," Stephanie continued.

"Like William was hidin'," Lesley added.

Stephanie nodded, pigtails bouncing. "And fuss a whole lot, till Uncle Mycroft starts yelling."

"Perfect. Distraction is the key," Sherlock emphasized. "If any of you get caught, remember —"

"We'll die before we talk, sir!" Robert interrupted.

"It's less dramatic if you burst into tears. If an adult interrupts our fun" — it _was_ fun, commanding this little army, especially given that it would get him Mycroft's computer access card — "I want all of you to think of something _very, very sad,_ so you can start crying. It doesn't have to be real, but it does have to be sad. Can you all do that? Not now," he added quickly to forestall a potential river of fake tears.

Five heads nodded with varying degrees of confidence.

"All right. Remember, we won't speak again until after tea. We'll meet up here, and I'll bring you your pay. Any last questions?"

Five heads shook.

"Very good. Now scatter."

"It's _'dismissed',_ sir," Robert corrected fussily.

Sherlock managed not to roll his eyes; John would either love Wiggins or strangle him. "Yes, yes. Dismissed, then." The children obediently broke ranks and scattered, the twins running across the attic to the spiral staircase at the far end, everyone else taking the various trapdoors and ladders.

Sherlock let himself out a window that was conveniently above his bedroom. Dropping down to his section of the roof was much easier as an adult than it had been as a child. He'd already showered and changed and wasn't due for breakfast — and the start of his plan — for another hour, so he settled down on the damp stone roof for a smoke.

He lit the cigarette and leaned back, looking at the fog blanketing the estate grounds. One day, he'd bring John home to meet Mother. He thought John would like it here, so long as Mycroft wasn't around. He knew John would find Mycroft every bit as irritating as Sherlock himself did.

He transferred the cigarette to his left hand and took the anonymous mobile from his pocket, typing out a text one-handed.

_I have a militia now. Everyone always underestimates children, but I find them incredibly useful. Soon, I'll know how to better help you._

* * *

In London, Mycroft took great pains to control everything within his domain. He had teams of agents, assistants, soldiers, allies, and underlings whose sole focus was to impose order upon chaos, at Mycroft's direction.

The holidays he spent at home were, therefore, that much more of a trial. Not to say that Lady Holmes didn't do exceedingly well at being a gracious and proper hostess — quite the opposite. But the introduction of children into the holiday was an unnecessary complication. Really, boarding school existed _for a reason_.

So it was that Mycroft was late for his morning appointment to speak with Lady Holmes. Spilled sweet tea, heavy with milk, did nothing good for Gieves & Hawkes' finest lambswool, and though the staff at the estate were excellently trained, he despaired of them completely removing the stain.

Fortunately, it hadn't been his best suit — that was reserved for church and dinner tomorrow — and he had a backup, so when he finally made his way to the tapestry room, he was properly dressed in dark navy herringbone with matching waistcoat and a deep burgundy tie. It was a bit dark for morning, but still within acceptable bounds.

The tapestry room was named for the unfinished replica of _Touch,_ one of the tapestries from the series _La Dame à la licorne_ — The Lady and the Unicorn. The tapestry was over a hundred years old, begun just after the originals had been restored and put on display in 1882. This one now resided in a sealed frame built by an expert restorationist, behind slightly tinted glass meant to protect the brightly dyed threads from the sunlight.

Lady Holmes was already there, reading a copy of _Emerging Infectious Diseases,_ the journal published by the American Centers for Disease Control. The cover art was a gruesome image of William Blake's painting _The Ghost of a Flea_.

She set the journal down and tipped her face up so Mycroft could kiss her cheek. "I thought you'd had enough tea, so I asked the kitchen to brew up some of that coffee Sherlock brought."

"That sounds delightful," Mycroft lied with a smile, hiding his expression as Lady Holmes put aside her magazine and went to ring for a servant. He'd had his assistant scouring antique shops for three weeks to find the perfect gift — a set of antique surgical scalpels from the eighteenth century — and Sherlock had managed to again win favor with nothing more than a pound of coffee and his usual bad manners.

He pushed the thought aside as uncharitable, given what his brother had so recently endured. Not even four weeks had passed, and every counselor Mycroft consulted had spoken in terms of _years_ for recovery from sexual assault. Mycroft was, somewhat to his own surprise, proud of his brother's resilience and mental fortitude.

A few minutes later, the coffee was served. With enough sugar and cream, it was excellent, especially accompanied by the light honey-almond biscuits the servants had provided. Sometimes, Mycroft wondered why he even bothered trying to maintain his diet on these trips home.

"Now, what was it you wanted to discuss?" Lady Holmes asked once they'd finished a biscuit apiece.

"I'm afraid it's a bit alarming," Mycroft said delicately. "You do know how Sherlock tends to find trouble — sometimes more than he can handle."

One perfect dark silver brow arched. "Oh?"

"There's no kind way to put this. A few weeks ago, he was assaulted. Intimately."

Her eyes went wide as she read the meaning behind his careful wording, and he prepared for a flurry of questions that never came. Instead, her brows drew slowly down and she pursed her lips thoughtfully, giving Mycroft a quizzical, sharp-eyed look. "Really?"

"I understand it's difficult to believe, given his brief training in martial arts and boxing, but I'm afraid so. The one responsible took some time to degrade his self-confidence and create a sense of dependency, undermining Sherlock's psychological defenses."

But Lady Holmes was still staring at him in disbelief, and finally she shook her head, saying, "I'm sorry, Mycroft, but... you said this happened 'a few weeks ago'?"

"Sunday, the seventh of March, through the morning of Monday the eighth."

"No, dear," she said, calmly sipping her coffee. "You're wrong."

_"Wrong?"_ The word slipped out, knife-sharp and indignant, before he could catch himself.

She nodded again. "I recognize that you and your brother have always had your differences, but you really don't _know_ him at all, do you?"

"Mummy, how could I _possibly_ be wrong?" he asked reasonably. "You didn't see him the morning after. All the signs were present. I've consulted several experts, and they all —"

"Did you ask your brother?"

"Certainly not! A victim of this type of assault rarely wants to admit to such an experience, often assuming the blame lies with himself and not with the attacker, but all the signs were there. Sherlock made a point of showering multiple times immediately after — an obvious sign of his desire to put it in his past. There was... other evidence as well, though there's no need to discuss the details," he said, unwilling to explain John Watson's so-called profession.

Lady Holmes frowned, remaining silent as she finished her coffee. She was impossible to read, even for Mycroft, much to his frustration. Finally, she said, "I spent some time with him yesterday, and I assure you, I saw no sign of it at all. I'm afraid you _are_ wrong."

Mycroft would have dismissed anyone else, but throughout his childhood, the only people who'd proven smarter than him were his mother and father. Had his mother gone into politics rather than medicine, she could have ruled the world. She was one of the world's foremost parasitologists; she still lectured and wrote the occasional paper, though she'd long since retired from active study in the field.

But for all her genius, she, like Sherlock, lacked the ability to fully understand _people_. Sherlock saw everything through the filter of criminal behavior. Similarly, Lady Holmes was a doctor before all else, seeking a physiological reason for what was sometimes, in the end, simply how people were.

Mycroft could still remember being just twelve years old when he'd heard Mummy and Father discussing Sherlock's odd behavior. Mummy had wanted to bring in a specialist, but Father had insisted that all children were strange, and Sherlock would grow out of it. While Mycroft had instinctively adapted his social behavior to better blend in with his peers, Sherlock had rebelled and lashed out. Mummy was adamant that Sherlock needed _help_. Mycroft had read enough of Mummy's medical texts to understand, even in his juvenile ways, that psychiatrists would want to make boys like Sherlock and Mycroft _normal,_ seeing their brilliance as an abomination and not something enviable.

It had been _Mycroft_ who'd saved Sherlock from that fate. He'd taught Sherlock how to pretend to be just normal enough to avoid being medicated into insensibility. He'd _protected_ Sherlock, because he understood what it was like to be ostracized for being too smart, too sharp-witted. And while he had no doubt that Mummy thought she was doing the right thing for Sherlock, she was basing her decision on instinct and emotion, not facts.

"Well, let's hope you're right," he said with a practiced, diplomatic smile.

"Mycroft," Lady Holmes said sharply. "You've always admirably held to your role as Sherlock's protector, but perhaps you've been blinded to the truth. Sherlock is not you; he never will be you. For all that you two are very much alike, you are also very, very different."

"Of course, Mummy. The paths our lives have taken prove that to be true," he said agreeably.

"Yes, but perhaps you need to really _look_ at him — not through the lens of your expectations or your past experiences, but with fresh eyes. I think you might be surprised at what you find."

Mycroft's self-confidence cracked — a minor fracture, to be sure, but a crack nonetheless. He wasn't perfect by any stretch, but he certainly wasn't accustomed to being _wrong_ when it came to his brother. Troubled, he nodded, thinking perhaps he should reassess Sherlock's state. If nothing else, he'd grown older; perhaps he'd grown more mature as well.

Or perhaps being here, under the stress of a holiday visit with the family, was affecting Sherlock's behavior and skewing their mother's perception. Mycroft tried to feel better as he considered that possibility, but the seeds of doubt had already been planted.

And if he really was wrong, then he'd made a truly terrible mistake.

* * *

Sherlock grinned as he watched the remote desktop connection come online. The fingerprint scanner had been easy to bypass, thanks to some tools provided by a forger several months back. The chip-implanted ID card had been the greater security challenge, at least until his little army of thieves had flawlessly executed their mission. And with Mycroft having a post-breakfast conference with mother in the tapestry room, Sherlock had at least an hour to get the files he needed.

Technically, the Churchill Club was a private organization, but privacy meant little to Mycroft's branch of the government. Sherlock found his way to the club's membership roster, referenced both byname and by MoD number, and checked for reservations for the night John had gone there: Wednesday, the twenty-fourth of March.

Despite Mycroft's high security clearance, it was impossible for Sherlock to save a file locally to his laptop, which forced him to print out screen captures immediately. He needed to actually see the printouts to verify the quality was sufficient for him to read the text. Then it was a matter of searching through the reservations list for anyone who'd been posted to Afghanistan in the last five years, an arbitrary number that was most likely sufficient to give him a commanding officer who'd have easy access to snipers still in the field.

There was no easy way to cross-reference his list. Damn the government for having information in unlinked databases! He finally just started printing everything he possibly could, loading the printer's queue until the alarm on his mobile chimed a warning that Mycroft would shortly be returning to his room. Because of the sheer volume of information, he gave himself another five minutes, and then resisted the urge to keep the card. He put on nitrile gloves, pulled the card out of the USB reader, and slipped it back into the appropriate pocket of Mycroft's stolen wallet. He tucked the wallet into his jacket and then went to the door, where William was lurking.

"Ready?" William asked.

"Go," Sherlock said, and closed the door silently. He went back across the bedroom to the window. He climbed out cautiously, almost slipping on the wet roof. The rain would make this difficult, but it almost guaranteed that no one would be outside, looking up.

Fortunately, Mycroft's window was not thirty feet from his own. Sherlock had long since learned how to force the old latch from the outside. He pushed the window in, putting all his weight against the frame, digging his toes against the slate lip at the very edge of the roof. It was precarious and dangerous, but he managed to keep from falling. The window lock popped out of alignment.

He didn't dare enter the room — he'd leave wet footprints everywhere — so he carefully dried his gloved hand, extracted the wallet, and gave it a toss. It skittered on the Persian rug and slid under the bed.

_Perfect,_ he thought, closing the window. The sound of the latch was as loud as gunshot, but he'd already anticipated that. If Mycroft were approaching, William would keep him occupied.

Relieved the plan had gone smoothly, Sherlock hurried back to his own room, climbed back inside, and quickly closed the window to shut out the cold. The printer on the desk was still spitting out pages. He stripped off the nitrile gloves and shoved them into a pocket of his suitcase before going to call William off-duty.

Sherlock had just enough time for a quick, hot shower before he'd have to go sweet-talk Cook out of dessert. An army travelled on its stomach, after all, and he might just need Mycroft's wallet stolen again before the holiday was over.


	9. Chapter 9

**Sunday, 4 April 2010**

Anticipating a challenge with Easter Sunday travel, John caught an early train from London to Camberley. Normally, he would have walked from the station, but he was still on his crutch for one more day, so he caught a taxi for the brief ride to Sandhurst.

The gate guard was surprisingly young — practically a child — and John felt all his years press down on him as he showed his ID. Those years seemed to fall away, though, as he directed the taxi down Staff College Road, passing by the two lakes, visible through the winter-bare trees. He'd never been particularly fond of boating or swimming (though he supposed that would change, now that he'd joined a gym) but he'd spent more than a few hours by those lakes.

Before they reached the chapel at end of the road, he had the driver turn off the picturesque road and head towards the complex that was the unremarkable domain of the elite marksmanship instructors. They took perverse pride in the industrial feel of their buildings.

Once they reached a parking lot in front of an ugly warehouse-style building, John had the driver stop, paid the fare, and went for the doors, hoping to get out of the rain. Though he was ten minutes early, the doors opened as he approached, and there was Regimental Sergeant Major Gottlieb.

"My god, look at you," John said, grinning, as he got out of the weather, all the while looking her over. She was tall and made of whipcord muscle, her dark brown hair cut boyishly short. Her skin was as tan as possible after a full winter in England. Despite the chill, she was in a much-loved Grateful Dead T-shirt, torn at the hem, and tight blue jeans. "You haven't changed a bit."

"You have," she said, taking in his splint and crutch with surprise. "I _was_ going to ask why this visit, but I think I can guess now. So much for a romantic holiday."

"Yes, well." John laughed sheepishly. "Since a captain can't date an RSM until we're _both_ retired, I do have to look elsewhere."

"Oh, you poor, delusional captain. You couldn't handle me," she said sweetly, clapping him on the shoulder. "Let's head downstairs. It's rare I get to show off, you know."

"Liar," he accused, and gestured for her to lead the way.

She swiped her security badge to summon a lift and then swiped again once they were inside to unlock basement access. "One of mine is going to the Olympics in two years, you know," she said proudly as the lift began to rattle.

"That's fantastic! I'm surprised you weren't asked to coach."

"I prefer to stay out of the spotlight. Besides, could you imagine me giving a BBC interview?" Her grin was positively shark-like.

John had to laugh. "Right, forget I said anything."

The doors stuttered open, showing a long hallway stretching to the right and left. The cinderblock walls were painted industrial grey and the overhead lighting was harsh fluorescent, though every other block was switched off. Every door along the hallway had a badge reader.

Gott turned to the right and stopped at the nearest door, swiping her card. "So, handguns, you said. Any preference?"

"Off-hand practice, though I'll be rid of this" — he held up his left hand, showing the splint — "tomorrow, give or take. I'd prefer to work up to a SIG nine with both hands, at a fair distance."

She looked him over, assessing him not as a friend or a man but as a student. "I think we'll get you started with a twenty-two, just to see if you've developed any bad habits I need to break. Then we can start the real fun."

* * *

Sherlock's plan to avoid church on Easter Sunday was very nearly foiled by Lady Holmes' iron will. He'd deliberately gone down to breakfast in his dressing gown, earning shocked stares from the rest of the gathered family, all in their finest suits and dresses. But Mycroft, of all people, had finally ended the silent argument by telling their mother, "Oh, let him stay. He'll only make a scene."

Ten minutes after the line of cars departed for the village chapel, Sherlock changed into comfortably rugged clothing and paid a quick visit to the trophy room. The rifles and shotguns were kept in display cases with reinforced glass and strong steel frames. The ammunition — enough to supply a small army — was in an exquisite antique safe tucked away in one corner. Most of it was meant for hunting, but Sherlock found two boxes of 9mm ammunition on a high shelf. He took both.

He crossed the back lawn and went into the forest that had once been used for family hunts. He was tempted to text John (though he still had yet to hear back from him) but it was raining too hard for him to risk taking either mobile from his pocket.

Of course, shooting in this weather meant he'd have to clean the weapon to prevent rust or dirt or whatever else the weather would do to the mechanisms, which posed its own challenge. Mycroft was irritating but not stupid. He'd detect even the slightest trace of cleaning chemicals, and he'd more easily detect the cordite-and-metal smell of the weapon if Sherlock didn't clean it.

Then he considered John's solution to gun care, and he slowly grinned, breaking into a jog to more quickly reach the shelter of the trees. He didn't need to use trichloroethane- or heptane-based copper solvents when perfectly innocuous household chemicals that would do the job instead. Let Mycroft figure _that_ out.

* * *

John hit the magazine release with his right thumb as he picked up the second magazine from the firing table. Ignoring the distracting clatter of metal, he raised the second magazine smoothly toward the base of the pistol's grip. He felt the contour with his thumb to properly orient the magazine. Thank God he'd thought to spend the last couple of weeks practicing doing this with a right-handed stance. The magazine slid smoothly into the grip, and he bunched his muscles at the last instant to punch it home.

As soon as it locked, he cupped the base of the grip with his left hand and eased his finger on the trigger, feeling the heavier weight of the double-action shot. He was already lined up to the next target, but the shot still went wide and right by a good inch and a half.

He finished his exhale and set the pistol on the firing table, muzzle pointing safely downrange. He pushed off his ear protectors and turned to look back over his shoulder. "All right, Gott. What am I doing?"

"Too much follow-through," she said at once. "Reset."

He dropped the magazine and racked the slide to eject the chambered round. He loaded one additional round into the magazine and set it aside. Gott had already loaded the original magazine with three rounds.

"When you slap the magazine home and drop your hand to take your stance, don't come back up." She got behind him, body pressed to his, and put her hands on his wrists. He'd taken the splint off his left wrist for the practice, and he was glad that he didn't even feel an ache yet. "Like this."

She lifted his right hand as though holding a pistol and positioned his left underneath, palm-up. "Drop the mag," she said, moving his left hand away. "Reach for the next, bring it up... and punch it home." She lifted his left hand under his right, then moved both up slightly with the motion of locking the fresh magazine in place. "Left hand down to catch the grip, and let your right fall naturally into your palm. There's no upward motion of the muzzle. Keep it steady."

"Right," he muttered, irritated with himself for not realizing what he was doing. "Nine months and I'm out of practice."

"Nine months out of practice and you'd still wipe the floor with most of my students."

"Flatterer," he accused, grinning back at her as she stepped away.

She grinned back, settled her safety glasses in place, and picked up her ear protection. "Lock and load, Watson. First target."

* * *

"Coffee will kill your aim. You know that," Gott said as John sat down on the sofa next to her. "That'll knock three points off your sniper rating."

"Here I thought this was a casual date. If we're going to get serious, though..." He deliberately put the styrofoam cup down on the table, moving aside a half dozen magazines to make room.

She grinned, took a swig of some purple sports drink, and offered him the plastic bottle. "If you're interested, it could be arranged, though we'll have to go aboveground. You going to melt in the rain? You _are_ an officer, after all."

"Try me," he challenged, waving the drink away. Once mess halls had become a thing of the past for him, he'd resolved to never drink anything that contained chemicals he couldn't identify.

"You're on," she agreed, glancing around the staff lounge. It was full of battered, scavenged furniture, and the walls were decorated with marksmanship targets, every one of them showing one ragged hole — made by many bullets — in the centre ring. "So, were you going to tell me what this is all about?"

"It's _very_ private."

"It's just us. No security in here," she promised, looking gravely at him.

He took a deep breath and nodded slowly. "The one who did this" — he gestured at the crutch leaning against the wall — "is still after me. He threatened my family if I went to the police, so it's up to me to protect myself."

Gott's dark eyes narrowed with concern. "Who is he?"

"No idea." His frustration was apparent in his voice. "Some of the men are looking into it for me. As soon as I can get an identity, I'll be able to figure out what to do next."

"All right," she said slowly, her frown deepening. "Next question: _Why?_" She looked him over and said, "I hate to say it, John, but the man's an idiot for not killing you. I certainly wouldn't be stupid enough to leave you alive."

John exhaled sharply. "That's the part I don't understand. I was _meant_ to survive, because a woman called in a tip to the police some time later. I read a report of the call. She said she'd been walking by and heard screaming, only I hadn't screamed."

Gott looked at him steadily.

"I'm not bragging. I'll admit, it was a near thing, but I didn't — certainly not loudly enough to be heard outside the warehouse."

"So this woman knew what had happened," Gott said thoughtfully. "Was she working for whoever" — she gestured at the crutch — "or was she trying to help without getting more directly involved?"

"She definitely wasn't on my side," he answered. "She called one particular detective directly, rather than calling nine-nine-nine as anyone else would have done. And to the best of our knowledge, this detective is working for whoever's responsible for all of this."

"Shit," she said eloquently. "No wonder why you won't go to the police, if they're compromised."

"That and it was obviously a _military_ op. When I say they were professionals, I mean the bloody SAS or something. Hell, it was the type of operation I've done, though never on English soil."

"Shit," she repeated, and took another drink.

"My thoughts exactly."

* * *

Lady Holmes grasped Sherlock's shoulders, searching his expression, reading his surface, thoughts in the steady, calm way that he met her gaze. He'd been troubled this morning, something that she'd missed under the hectic flurry of getting the extended family ready for church and making last-minute changes to the formal dinner menu. Always aware of Sherlock's moods, it had been Mycroft who'd noticed and suggested Sherlock be permitted to stay home.

It was comforting to think that Mycroft looked after Sherlock, even if he was sometimes wrong.

"Promise me that you'll call and let me know how you are," she whispered into Sherlock's ear as she embraced him.

She felt him tense as though to protest, but then he nodded and actually returned the hug with what felt like genuine affection. "I promise," he answered quietly. He turned to kiss her cheek and added, almost too softly for her to hear, "I think you'll approve of him."

Tears stung her eyes. "I'm certain I will," she agreed just as softly. She released Sherlock, who left the house without another word.

Mycroft took Sherlock's place, kissing her cheek before he embraced her with his usual stiff formality. "Always a pleasure to see you, Mummy."

"And you, dear. I'll be in London in a few weeks."

"I'll clear my calendar," he promised. "The opera season looks absolutely terrible until November, I'm afraid."

Never a particular fan of opera, she let that pass. "Mycroft... Take care of your brother," she told him, resting her hand on his for a moment.

"Always." He smiled fondly at her and left, having already said his farewells to the rest of the family and the guests she'd invited.

She sighed to herself, thinking that the weekend had turned out acceptably, though again, she'd failed to find Mycroft a suitable match. Well, at least Sherlock had someone in mind, even if the relationship wasn't yet formalized. Sherlock was clever and determined, though not precisely charming in a traditional sense; surely he'd find the way to his young man's heart. Hopefully, by the end of the summer, one of her sons would no longer be alone.

* * *

_I'm back home and ready now. I should have all the information I require. Don't worry about me. I've taken steps to ensure I'll be safe, no matter what. I'll be with you soon._

Sherlock sent the text as soon as he was back in the relative privacy of 221-B Baker Street, though he was going to have to sweep again for surveillance. Mycroft would never let the flat stand empty for an entire weekend without sending in his interfering bootlickers to make Sherlock's life difficult again.

He dug his gun out of his suitcase and tossed it on the coffee table. It had taken the first full box of ammunition for him to develop any level of comfort. Really, the weapon was too small, but he'd specifically asked Angelo to acquire a weapon that was easily concealed. But by the end of the second box, he'd become proficient enough to hit the tree he was using as a target at ten yards.

Not that he intended on letting John's enemy get that far away.

He left his suitcase by the door — everything needed to go to the dry cleaner's — and sat down with the pages he'd printed using Mycroft's ID. He considered scanning them and running the scans through OCR software, but the quality was degraded enough that even the best software would introduce an unacceptable number of errors. Image-to-text software was notoriously bad with names. He'd have to do this the old fashioned way.

Now that he was back home and no longer had the excuse of being trapped in Mycroft's presence, he stuck a nicotine patch to his arm, rather than actually lighting a cigarette. Then he plugged his laptop charger in, pushed open the lid, and began to transcribe the first page into a spreadsheet.

His mobile rang before he'd made it to the end of the first printout. He considered ignoring it — it was his old mobile, not the anonymous one that only John would contact — but curiosity got the better of him. When he saw Lestrade's name, he frowned and answered: "What?"

"Got an Easter present for you." Lestrade sounded worn down and angry.

"What?" Sherlock repeated.

"Kidnapping. Need you to look at the note."

"Bring it here. I'm busy," Sherlock said. He rang off, torn between irritation at the distraction and the first stirring of excitement. Kidnappings were always fun — like serial murders, but with the added pressure of a clock ticking down towards whatever ominous end the kidnapper threatened.

Lestrade showed up two pages later, giving Mrs. Hudson only the briefest of greetings before he started up the stairs, taking them two at a time. The victim was a child, then — possibly even an infant, but more likely a boy between seven and ten. Lestrade would be seeing similarities to the nephew he favored.

"Come in!" Sherlock called, not looking up from his transcription. At the last minute, he remembered the gun on the coffee table. He debated leaving it in sight — he was admittedly curious about how Lestrade would react — but tossed the printouts over as the door opened.

Lestrade walked in, looking as upset as he'd sounded on the phone. "I'm glad you're back. Been trying to call you all day."

"Oh." Sherlock glanced at his mobile and saw the voicemail indicator. "Yes, I didn't feel like having Mycroft listen in on my phone calls. Did you bring me the note?"

Instead of asking stupid questions, Lestrade handed over a large, flat evidence bag. "Gloves," he reminded Sherlock.

With a huff of frustration, Sherlock abandoned his laptop to go to find the box of nitrile gloves in the kitchen. He usually carried a pair, but he'd used them to steal Mycroft's CAC-card. Once he was gloved, he extracted the note from the baggie and brought it to the corner lamp. Cheap paper but unusually thick, not a standard size. It was that craft paper used in school for art projects, though it was white and not some garish color.

The kidnapper had been unimaginative, cutting the letters and words from newsprint. _Everyone_ owned at least an inkjet printer these days, didn't they? The newsprint was from yesterday's paper, no longer smelling of ink. The glue, though...

He went to the kitchen and shoved aside some of his glassware, realizing only then that Mrs. Hudson had been up to clean. He must have left something noxious out. He'd ask her later, though she was terribly inadequate at identifying even the most common chemical compounds.

A minute later, his suspicions were confirmed. "It's not a kidnapping," he told Lestrade, putting down the scalpel he'd used to pry the corner of one letter from the paper. "You're dealing with a somewhat imaginative runaway."

"What? Sherlock —"

"Oh, look," he snapped, bringing the 'ransom note' back to Lestrade. "The phrasing's fairly literate, but nothing you can't read in any Enid Blyton mystery. Children's art paper, stick-glue — the type a child could eat without risking poisoning himself — and the letters were cut out with blunt safety-scissors. Look at the ragged corners."

Lestrade sighed and sat down on the sofa, pressing his hands against his eyes. "Christ. Half the damned force out looking for this kid on a holiday..."

"He had a fight with his parents. They sent him to bed early to get up for church, I suspect?" Sherlock asked, dropping the note on top of the printouts. Lestrade's expression was confirmation enough. "Check friends' houses, but also check the nearest library and the school. Bookstores, too. There's every chance you'll find your 'kidnapping victim' asleep with a book somewhere, probably gorged on Easter chocolates."

"Right, then." Lestrade picked up the note, not bothering with gloves, and dropped it back into the evidence baggie. "How was your holiday?"

"I was with Mycroft. How do you _think_ it was?"

* * *

Eyes closed, John smoothly dropped the clip from his SIG, got the spare out of his pocket, and slid it home, conscious of muzzle positioning. One day of practice wasn't enough to develop muscle memory (though it was more than enough to make his left wrist ache) but it was a good start.

His mobile rang as he put the SIG down on the desk. He smiled when he saw Jim's name on the screen, though somewhere inside, he couldn't help but wish it was Sherlock. The last few weeks had been incredibly lonely without his mad texts — not that he had John's new number. The texts coming in on the new mobile certainly didn't help put John's mind at ease, no matter who was actually sending them. Even more uncomfortable was the fact that every text sounded like something Sherlock would send.

He still worried about the radiation.

He answered the call, tucked the mobile between his shoulder and ear, and picked up the first empty magazine. "Hello?" He started loading bullets in, using his right hand to do most of the work.

"Hi. I'm not bothering you, am I? Happy Easter," Jim said quickly.

John couldn't help but laugh. "Not at all. Happy Easter to you, too."

"I, ah, just wanted to make sure... Are we still on for tomorrow?"

John was tempted to refuse, but he knew that was out of an irrational sense of impatience, rather than any lack of interest. Now that he no longer needed the crutch, he wanted to _do something_. There was simply nothing to do — at least not yet — and he knew better than to try and turn the tables on his surveillance team. It was tempting to get one of them alone for a brief interrogation, but he wasn't stupid enough to risk the repercussions.

But in the end, he knew the distraction would do him good. He craved the release, the break from reality that would come from domming. The need probably wouldn't have been this bad had he not spent a month at it almost every night. So he answered, with quiet confidence, "Absolutely."

"Great." Jim's shy voice took on a hint of nervous excitement. "So, ah, want to just come straight to my place, then? Skip dinner?"

Something inside John relaxed at the suggestion. Having dinner beforehand felt more like a date and less like a planned, negotiated scene. "Sounds like an excellent idea. Make sure you eat something, though."

"I'll be ready, I promise."

"Good." John put down the first magazine and picked up the second. As he started to load it, he said, "From this point on, you're mine, Jim. I want you to get some rest and make sure to take care of yourself, but no touching. I'll know if you cheat. Understand?"

Perhaps Jim had expected it, but he still gasped quietly. "Okay," he agreed after a moment.

"Properly, Jim," John scolded sharply. "We do this right or not at all."

"Yes, sir," he said tentatively.

"That's better. I'll be there tomorrow at seven."

"Seven it is," Jim confirmed, his voice still soft. "Goodnight... sir," he added.

John grinned. "Goodnight, Jim," he said, disconnecting the call. He'd made the right decision. He felt better than he had in weeks; it had been too long since he'd indulged himself this way. He needed to control _something_ in his life, even for just a few hours at a time.

He pushed the magazine into place and racked the slide, chambering the first round. Then he dropped the magazine and picked up another bullet. It was perhaps excessive, but he believed in being prepared, especially when he was absolutely certain 'they' — whoever 'they' might be — were out to get him.

He almost fumbled the round when his other mobile buzzed a text alert. Startled, he set the magazine down and picked up the BlackBerry.

_I'm back home and ready now. I should have all the information I require. Don't worry about me. I've taken steps to ensure I'll be safe, no matter what. I'll be with you soon._

John's contentment drained away as he stared at the text. This one was even worse than yesterday's text about a militia, God help him. If it was actually from Sherlock, the implications were terrifying. John couldn't begin to imagine what 'steps' Sherlock would take to ensure his own safety. And if it was sent as a way to provoke him into reacting, it was a damned clever attempt. Every instinct was screaming for him to respond with even a simple 'Don't do anything', but he couldn't risk it.

He forced himself to put the mobile down. Automatically, he picked up the SIG and pushed the fully-loaded magazine into place. He'd have to concentrate on finding the bastard who was responsible for all of this — hopefully _before_ Sherlock managed to get himself hurt or worse.


	10. Chapter 10

**Monday, 5 April 2010**

Jim's mobile rang at three minutes past five, just as he pulled his Maserati out into traffic. He thumbed the Bluetooth control on the steering wheel and answered, "Hello?"

"Jim. It's me," Moran answered.

Jim let out a relieved sigh and slid the little sports car into a gap three inches longer than the frame. "What happened?"

"Holmes," he growled. "I got caught up in his surveillance op after my dinner with Watson two weeks ago. Apparently, the op ended right before the Easter break."

"And you didn't let me know four days ago?" Jim snapped, aggressively braking at the last moment when the idiot ahead of him didn't ease through the light.

"I was under the impression you wanted to _avoid_ getting on Holmes' radar. If that's changed, I can drop him a note for you."

"Don't fucking test me!" Jim slammed his palm against the steering wheel, taking a deep breath in an effort to steady his temper. Five minutes ago, he'd been in a state of pleasant anticipation, his skin buzzing, every sense alert and awake. Though he'd shown no sign of distraction in any of the day's meetings, a part of his mind had been suspended in a comfortable fog of desire. Now, he wanted to slice every inch of skin off someone — anyone, really.

Anyone but John Watson.

He forced himself to concentrate on what would be happening in one hour, fifty-five minutes. Did he _really_ need Moran tonight? He wanted to trust Watson. His instincts told him he _could_ trust Watson. But he hadn't come this far in the world by being reckless. Every risk he'd ever taken had been mathematically planned, contingencies mapped, exit strategies laid out well in advance.

Tonight was as close to uncertainty as he ever allowed himself to get. Though he and John had conducted the most thorough negotiation Jim had ever experienced, John had simply agreed to Jim's limits, added a couple of his own, and then confirmed the time and date of their scene. He hadn't actually _specified_ what he'd be doing or what he'd expect from Jim.

Grudgingly, Jim's rational mind reasserted itself. "You need to be in position by half-six tonight," he ordered.

"That's in... eighty-three minutes." It came out as a borderline complaint.

"Then you'd better fucking move your arse," Jim said, disconnecting the call.

* * *

John leaned against the bathroom counter, very carefully dragging the safety razor over his jaw, not even daring to breathe. There was no tremor, thankfully, but his left hand felt weak and clumsy. At least he'd given himself plenty of time to get ready. It had been raining on and off all day — for the last three weeks, in fact — and he'd taken care to factor in the possibility of traffic.

His mobile rang, making him drop the razor before he could nick himself. Cursing, he picked up the phone, checking to see if it was Jim calling to confirm or cancel. But it was Irene, so he answered and put her on speaker, propping the phone up on the damp, discarded towel. "Hello?" he said, retrieving his razor from the sink with a splash.

"John, love. What are you wearing?" Irene asked.

He arched a brow, looking at the phone. "A towel and shaving foam."

"Goodness. Have you started your date already?"

He rolled his eyes and turned back to the mirror. "It's not a date, Irene. It's a negotiated scene."

She sighed. "Oh, love. This is pleasure, not business. Consider me your personal dominant support network. So let's try this again. What are you wearing to your scene?"

He had to stop shaving so he could laugh. "I hadn't got that far," he admitted. "Probably jeans."

"Boring, but at least it isn't tacky."

"I don't own anything tacky, love. Kate went through my wardrobe, threw out whatever she didn't like, and pronounced everything else either 'suitable' or 'adorable', God help me."

"You _could_ go for leather. The view from the back would just be gorgeous, you know."

He couldn't help but blush at that. He _did_ have leather, and he knew he looked good, but that seemed a little heavy-handed and cliche for a first scene. "Irene. Did you actually call me to criticize my sense of fashion?"

"Someone had to. But no, love." Her voice softened as she asked, "How are you doing? No... concerns about tonight?"

John rinsed his razor, looking down into the sink with a sigh. "I won't lie and say no, but I'm still the same man I was a month ago," he said firmly, though he fumbled his attempt to turn the razor in his fingers. He wanted to tell her how he really felt — how desperately he wished it was Sherlock and not Jim, sweet and appealing as Jim was, that he was seeing tonight — but he didn't dare. Not with the very distinct possibility that the flat was bugged.

"All right, love. Well, then one more thing, and I'll get out of your way. Where are you taking him?"

"I'm going to his flat."

"You _can_ come to the office, if you want. You know the equipment's all safe."

"Irene..." He turned his face, checking both sides of his jaw, and set the razor aside. "I appreciate the concern, but I'm fine."

There was a long pause before Irene laughed softly. "All right, love. Feel free to use Kate as your safe call," she added mischievously.

"Good night, Irene," he said, laughing, and heard her making kissing noises into the phone until he disconnected. God, she was impossible! But she cared, and every time his spirits flagged, she managed what no one else had ever done for him: she made him laugh.

* * *

Jim's flat was in a trendy warehouse-turned-loft building, which made John wonder if he'd got the address wrong. His estate agent had shown him similar flats, every one of them out of his price range. How could Jim afford this on a café worker's salary? Did he live with flatmates? Maybe John should've taken Irene up on her offer, if they were going to have privacy issues.

At the top floor, he followed Jim's directions to the last door on the left. He was back to walking with his cane, no longer a threat to himself and any unsuspecting furniture he might pass with that damned crutch. Plus, he could carry a small gym bag over his shoulder with no difficulty.

As he raised his hand to knock, the door opened; Jim must have been waiting. He looked out, his smile shyly charming. "Hi. Come in," he invited, stepping out of the way.

Upon seeing the open space beyond, John's first reaction was that if Jim had roommates, they were both neat and invisible. The flat was gorgeous, with pale hardwood floors and brick walls. The kitchen was white and stainless steel, with high stools lined up before a breakfast bar.

The outer wall was entirely glass, with a pair of sliding doors in the center leading out to a narrow balcony. Beyond, there were no buildings to obscure a fantastic view of the low-hanging clouds glowing with the city lights below. There was no television or entertainment center. Instead, a white sofa faced the windows, with a couple of armchairs to either side.

There was no way he could afford this on a barista's salary. Had he borrowed the keys from a rich friend to impress John?

John noticed stairs leading up to a loft, but his examination of the loft was interrupted by the click of the door lock. He turned back to look at Jim instead, and smiled when he saw Jim was casually dressed in jeans and a plain grey T-shirt that hugged his body.

"So —"

"Give me your safeword," John interrupted, suddenly wanting to see what was under those plain clothes.

Jim's eyes widened. "Pascal," he said, giving the same safeword he had when they'd discussed their likes, dislikes, and limits two weeks ago. John wanted the reminder to be fresh in both their minds.

"I won't play consent games — not for our first time. You can say no, stop, or Pascal, and we'll stop for as long as you need. I won't be upset, and it won't make me leave unless you ask me to. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Jim said a bit breathlessly.

John started counting silently.

He only reached four before a flush rose in Jim's cheeks. Looking down, Jim said, "Yes, _sir_."

"You remembered," John approved, dropping his bag at his feet. He took off his coat, hesitating when he remembered a moment very much like this a lifetime ago, at his bedsit. Before Jim could move or offer to take it, he said, "Go to the rug. Kneel down, facing the balcony."

He caught the way Jim's eyes went wide with surprise, but also with — he hoped — excitement. With a murmured, "Yes, sir," Jim turned and crossed the room, walking between the sofa and one of the chairs. He hesitated only for a moment as though choosing the precise spot, rather than hurrying to obey. When he did kneel, the movement was graceful and comfortable, and he went still without any fidgeting or shifting his posture.

He really had done this before, John realized, slowly grinning as some of the lingering apprehension finally bled away.

After retrieving his bag, he tossed his jacket over a stool near the breakfast bar. He put the bag on the next stool and unzipped it, glancing back over his shoulder to see Jim watching his reflection in the glass. Amused, he considered what he'd learned about Jim's preferences and limits.

He settled on a heavy leather flogger that he'd had for ages, though it had been in storage in London except when he was on leave. He also chose a signal whip, light and flexible, still new enough to smell of dye and conditioning oil, a gift from Irene. He'd brought restraints, but he left them in the bag, at least for now. Jim would expect to be restrained; John wouldn't push his threshold for pain, not during a first scene, but he would push his self-control.

When he turned and started toward the rug, Jim looked down, shoulders rising and falling with his deeper, slower breaths. John sat down on the couch, leaning his cane against the arm, and set the whips down on the center cushion.

"Stand up. Take off your clothes," he said, intentionally keeping his orders brief and non-specific. He wanted to watch Jim's interpretation, to see him trying to figure out precisely what John wanted.

After a moment, Jim rose steadily, with the same grace he'd shown earlier. Keeping his back to John, he lifted his head and looked at the glass, meeting the reflection of John's eyes again. It was interrupted only when he lifted his shirt over his head, revealing a surprisingly well-muscled back. The reflection showed similar definition to his chest and abdomen.

He walked to the armchair to the left, farther from where John sat, and draped his shirt over one arm. He was barefoot — and hadn't bothered with pants under his jeans, John noted with amusement as he worked them down over his hips. He was already growing hard, and he hadn't shaved, which John had half-expected.

When he was done, he looked back at John, meeting his gaze for a moment before bowing his head just slightly, not enough to hide either his blush or his smirk, a beautiful contrast that worked well for him. He knew just how attractive he was, and wasn't pretending at modesty.

At John's signal, he walked over to the sofa. He knelt without being prompted, letting out another quiet sigh when John touched the side of his face. John sat forward enough to be able to easily trace Jim's shoulders, following each muscle with his fingertips.

There was no hint of impatience in Jim at all. He shivered as John toyed with the hairs at the back of his neck, bowing his head a bit more. When John brought his hands forward, Jim raised his head enough to press a kiss to John's fingertips.

John felt some of his own tension ease, relaxing as Jim relaxed, and he found himself slipping easily into his role.

God, he needed this release. His constant concern for Sherlock, his hyper-awareness that his enemy was still out there, his curiosity about how a barista could afford this flat — all of his worries receded, not forgot but set carefully aside for the duration.

"I don't want to bind you — not yet. Can you hold still for me?" he asked softly.

Jim looked up through his lashes. John could see a flash of calculation in his eyes. The blush receded and the smirk grew as he answered, "For as long as you want, sir."

Some night, he'd test that, but not tonight.

* * *

It was past eight before Lestrade stepped out of the lift, one eye on his mobile. The building was hell for getting a signal, and he didn't trust ordering Chinese with fewer than three bars — too easy to confuse dinner special number five (orange chicken) with number nine (spicy Szechuan chicken). He had the takeaway restaurant's menu memorized, which was a pretty pathetic snapshot of his life, and though it was his favorite, he suddenly couldn't face it alone.

He thumbed through his address book as he crossed the lobby, juggling his briefcase, mobile, and umbrella to get himself sorted. At least it wasn't thundering the way it had been yesterday, though at least the violent storms had broken up three solid weeks of rain. (The snow on the first of April had been Mother Nature's version of a cruel joke.)

He dialled Molly's number before he could reconsider. Whenever he thought of her, his mind kept straying out of 'friendship' territory, especially now that he knew his marriage was over.

"Hello? Greg?" Molly's sweet, light voice was full of confusion and curiosity.

Lestrade couldn't help but grin. He'd only spoken with Molly a couple of times since _the bridge incident,_ as they'd taken to calling it, but he hadn't stopped thinking about her. "Evening, Molly."

"Hi. Is something wrong? Are you okay? Is Sherlock?"

Lestrade grimaced, though he supposed the fact she'd mentioned him before Sherlock was worth something, at least. "Everything's fine. I was actually wondering how you felt about —" He cut off as his mobile alerted him to an incoming call. A glance showed Sherlock's name, and he snapped, "Bloody hell!"

"Greg!" Molly gasped.

"Sorry! Christ — that wasn't — Look, Sherlock's ringing. It might be about yesterday's kidnapping case. Can I call you back?"

"Um, sure..." she said uncertainly.

"I will, I swear. Meanwhile, what's your favorite Chinese?"

"Um... Kung pao anything?" she said tentatively, turning it into a question.

"Sounds great. I'll call you right back," he said, quickly switching over to Sherlock's call. "Sherlock?"

"I need your surveillance cameras."

Lestrade stopped in his tracks. "You mean you want me to give you access to classified CCTV feeds."

"It's important."

A month ago, Lestrade would've told him to bugger off. Now, though, he heard something in Sherlock's voice that was either genuine worry or a very, very good act.

Unfortunately, he knew Sherlock was a damned good actor.

Sighing deeply, Lestrade said, "All right. I can give you fifteen minutes, but that's it. I'm bloody starved."

"That's more than enough. I know exactly which cameras —" He went silent, but the line didn't go dead. Lestrade could hear the rumble of traffic behind him. Sherlock was probably right outside the building.

"Sherlock? What is it?"

"Come to the visitor's entrance." The mobile went dead.

Not for the first time in the last month or so, Lestrade reminded himself that Sherlock had probably never been in a relationship, probably because other than John Watson, no one was crazy enough to get that close to Sherlock. Safer to fly too close to the sun the way Icarus had done.

He turned and went back across the lobby to the visitor's side of the building, and then out to the visitor's gate on Broadway. Beyond the security checkpoint, he spotted Sherlock pacing anxiously in the rain, his hair plastered to his skull in wet curls, collar turned up against the wind.

Did the man not own an umbrella?

Lestrade stepped out, nodding to the officer on duty, and opened his umbrella. He headed right to Sherlock, asking, "Are you trying to give yourself the flu?"

Instead of turning back towards Security, Sherlock caught Lestrade's sleeve and tugged him away. Lestrade felt a tug at his pocket. Then Sherlock said, "Meet me inside," and spun back around, leaving Lestrade to watch him, baffled, as he headed back to the checkpoint.

Lestrade's frustrated sigh was cut off when he felt his pocket and recognized the shape of a small pistol. "Christ," he muttered, wondering if this was Sherlock's attempt at getting himself arrested — some sort of Sherlock-style cry for help — or if he'd just been too bloody distracted to consider the wisdom of bringing a gun to New Scotland Yard.

There was a very good chance that unless Sherlock had an excellent explanation, Lestrade _wouldn't_ give it back.

As he headed toward the private entrance, where he wouldn't set off any metal detectors, he dialed Molly. "Sorry about that, Molly. I really am," he said as soon as she answered. "So, I was wondering... Care to have dinner tomorrow night? Chinese?"

* * *

Moran shifted position slightly and tried to hold back a yawn, rubbing at his aching neck before he went back to watching through his spotting glasses. His L115A3 sniper rifle was already set up on its bipod, the stock carefully balanced on sandbags, aimed at the lower level of Jim's loft. Moran had already factored in distance, window glass, and the weather (which was bloody cold), and would only have to make minor adjustments to the shot, assuming he took it. For what might be the first time in his career, he _didn't_ want to pull the trigger.

John Watson was one of his men, bound to him by bloodshed, loyalty, and loss. Jim Moriarty offered Moran his best chance at vengeance against the bastard who'd ended his career and locked him into a damned desk job. He'd only take the shot if one of them was about to kill the other, though which one he'd shoot, he couldn't rightly say.

But if things kept going as they were, he wouldn't have to shoot either one. Watson seemed to have pushed Jim into subspace hard and fast, judging by the way Jim was slumped almost bonelessly against the window glass, back bared to the signal whip. Good times for everyone, apparently, except Moran, stuck in a deserted, dark flat watching two men, which was definitely not his thing.

Abruptly, Jim slid down the glass, falling to his knees. Moran leaned forward, resting a hand on the stock of his rifle to keep it steady, just in case he had to take the shot after all. But Watson crouched down with Jim and set the signal whip aside. Jim had refused Moran's suggestion of audio surveillance, so Moran had no idea what the two of them were saying.

Jim arched suddenly, hands splayed against the window. For a moment, both of them seemed to be looking out across the street towards the empty flat where Moran had set up his post. But nothing short of infrared gear would pick out his shape in the cool darkness, and he realized they were looking at each other's reflection in the window glass.

It took a few minutes for Jim to start regaining his composure. Moran recognized the signs and wondered if the scene was ending.

Apparently not. Watson stepped back from Jim, giving a sharp tug to his hair. Bracing himself against the window for balance, Jim got to his feet. When he turned, Moran saw his back was laced with red welts, heaviest at his shoulders, buttocks, and thighs, lightest over his kidneys. That matched what Moran had heard of Watson: always concerned with safety. Probably came from his medical training.

Then they were moving, heading upstairs to the elevated loft bedroom, and Moran had to switch to follow them with his scope as he readjusted his aim. It was probably pointless — if Watson was going to try and kill Jim, he'd had plenty of opportunities already — but still, Moran kept his rifle sighted on the back of Watson's head, carefully holding his finger away from the trigger.

Upstairs, an order from Watson put Jim back on his knees, some distance away from the futon. (Moran had no idea how he could sleep on that thing without wrecking his back, even without the damage from the signal whip and flogger downstairs; it wasn't as if Jim couldn't afford a proper mattress.) Watson set about tying a length of rope to a support at one corner of the low bed. Then, disregarding the ropes, he buckled leather cuffs around Jim's wrists and locked them together behind his back.

Sighing to himself, Moran corrected his aim, looking away long enough to quickly recalculate the change in angle — his target wasn't just three meters higher but almost five meters farther away. He made the necessary fine adjustments and settled back to observe through his spotting glasses, wishing that they'd thought to involve a woman in the scene to make things interesting. Maybe next time.

* * *

"So, what's this all about?" Lestrade asked, rifling through his desk until he found a package of crisps that weren't too old. He ripped the plastic open and ate one.

"Someone is following John. I want to find out who." After stripping off his wet overcoat and scarf, Sherlock pushed past Lestrade and claimed his chair.

"Other than you?"

Treating the question as rhetorical, Sherlock pulled out the keyboard tray and looked up at him. "Shall I pretend I don't know your login?"

"Pain in the arse," Lestrade accused, putting down the crisps so he could claim his keyboard and log in. "Who's following him and how do you know?"

"I have informants," Sherlock said evasively. Lestrade stopped typing and stared at him until he sighed and continued, "One of them noticed someone — a 'dangerous bloke' — go into the building across the street from where John is tonight. That building is still under construction. No one has any business being there, especially not at this hour."

"And where is he tonight?" Lestrade asked as he went back to typing.

"A friend's," Sherlock said tersely. After determining that the relationship between John and Moriarty was business, Sherlock had extended his surveillance network to include Moriarty, though information on him was sketchy. The loft's address had been listed in the files Sherlock had reviewed at the café, so he was able to station one of his people there, and that investment had finally paid off tonight.

Finally, Lestrade logged in and opened the program that would get Sherlock access to government CCTV feeds. "If the camera's private —"

"Yes, a warrant. It's not private, or I'd be using my brother's access."

"Can you go _one day_ without breaking a law?"

"Laws." Sherlock sniffed derisively, snatching the keyboard away. "Eat your crisps."

"So who was following John? And why were _you_ following him? Thought you said you couldn't get that close till you knew more."

"And I've learned all I can at a distance." Sherlock fixed his attention on the monitor. "Pogrebnov's bodyguards were killed by a military sniper in the British army — either current or recently discharged. I suspect the man who was following John tonight either is that sniper or is from his group or unit or whatever they call themselves."

"You think a sniper's after John?" Lestrade asked, alarmed. "Why the hell aren't we taking him into protective custody?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock spared a moment to give him a contemptuous glare. "The sniper would just wait until he _left_ custody. We need to identify and neutralize him."

Lestrade's gut went cold as he thought about the pistol in his jacket pocket. "Sherlock, I'm not letting you kill anyone."

"You're being tedious," he accused, attention fixed back on the monitor. "I have no interest in killing someone unless John's life is in immediate danger. Humiliating the sniper by arranging his arrest is much more satisfying."

"And why shouldn't I arrest _you?_"

Sherlock looked up from the monitor. The glow of the screen turned his eyes silver. "If that's what you want, fine. _After_ John is safe."

* * *

"Caucasian, Asian doubtful but possible. Fair-haired — not bald," Sherlock said, using his magnifying glass to bring the blurry, zoomed-in printout of the surveillance footage frame into even greater detail. There was little he could get from the face, so he continued to scan the image. "Trousers, not jeans — note the pleat visible at the cuff — but he's wearing boots, round toe, possibly military given the thick tread."

"Could be carrying anything in that duffel bag," Lestrade added, gesturing to the medium-sized duffel in the man's right hand. In his left hand, he was carrying an umbrella that had interfered with several frames.

Sherlock bit back his retort, reminding himself to _be nice_. So he nodded and continued searching for subtler clues. "The bag is black, expensive — not something you get free with a gym membership, not military issue. No wedding ring, probably unmarried if he's our sniper, could just choose not to wear one if it interferes with shooting."

"Yeah. Sherlock, speaking —"

"The umbrella's expensive but plain. He's being careful to give away as few details as possible." Torn between irritation and his growing interest at having a clever target, Sherlock moved to the next CCTV frame. No help there — the target had already turned his back to the camera. Sherlock quickly scanned through the next few frames, trying to determine if the target was using a key or lockpicks to enter the building, but his view was completely blocked.

When Sherlock finally looked away from the prints scattered over the desk, Lestrade said quietly, "Why the hell did you slip me a pistol?"

"Forgot I was carrying it."

"All right. Why were you _carrying_ a pistol?"

"Because I'm hunting an _assassin,_ Lestrade. How would you prefer I protect myself? Harsh words?"

Lestrade stared at him, tired and worried, and Sherlock knew he'd won the battle. Now it was just a matter of leading Lestrade through the steps. Estranged from his wife, childless, Lestrade was all but alone. He'd proven an admirable level of loyalty to Sherlock, perhaps one that went all the way back to their earliest encounter, when Lestrade had been so determined to save Sherlock from him boredom-inflicted self-destruction.

"Sherlock —"

"I know how to use it," he said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. Though he was very, very good at negotiation, he loathed it as a waste of time. So he put on a faint smile and said, "I practiced this weekend."

Lestrade hesitated, looking away. "Where'd you get it in the first place?"

"My family has a country estate. My father used to host hunting parties. We have an entire trophy room full of guns."

"God. And you've probably got the keys," Lestrade said despairingly. He sat on the edge of the desk, looking down at Sherlock. "_This_ one's illegal, Sherlock. I realize between you and that government brother of yours, you two probably think laws aren't more than suggestions for other people, but if you get caught carrying this, I can't help you."

Sherlock hid his triumphant smile. "I won't get caught."

"Christ." Lestrade scrubbed his hands across his eyes. "Fine. First, you're going to keep me posted on _everything_ that happens. Second, if you even _think_ you're going to need to shoot someone, you _call me first_. you don't go into shit without backup. And third, when this is all over, you give this" — he touched the pocket where Sherlock had put the 9mm — "back to me."

Lestrade could be useful if things went badly, but Sherlock doubted he'd have the time to wait for backup. But at least having Lestrade on-call would make it easier for him to avoid actual police involvement; otherwise, he'd have to use Mycroft to deal with any paperwork.

So he nodded, resisting the urge to put on an air of false charm (Lestrade knew better), and said, "Fine. Now help me look through the earlier footage. Perhaps we can find out where he came from."

* * *

_Author's note: More details of John and Jim's first date can be found at as First Date._


	11. Chapter 11

**Tuesday, 6 April 2010**

Humans, Sherlock reflected, were very similar to bees. Act like you belonged, penetrate the outer defenses of the hive, and suddenly no one would question your presence. Long strides took him down a cool grey hall — not industrial grey but business-like shades that an interior designer would call 'dove' or 'mist', meant to reassure a client of the bank's professionalism and competence.

If only the customers knew.

A right turn took Sherlock into a cubicle farm, through a maze of padded walls reminiscent of an upscale asylum, towards the sunlight that was struggling and generally failing to penetrate the cloud cover. His goal was not the corner office, but one set enviously close, as though the worker within could be spurred to greater efforts by being placed in sight of his goal.

Sherlock didn't bother to knock. He glanced at the nameplate and pushed the door open. He entered so quietly that the occupant of the office didn't turn away from his contemplation of the skyline. A coiled cord stretched from the desk to the phone in his hand. In twenty years, banks and government offices would be the last places where one could find landlines — as if they couldn't be tapped.

For a few minutes, inane chatter filled the office. In a manufactured upper-crust accent, the low-ranking executive dispensed advice that was high on buzzwords and low on content. Even Sherlock knew that, and he'd never so much as balanced a checking account statement in his life except when it was necessary for an investigation.

"Wonderful, just wonderful. Yes, see you at the conference. Love to the wife," Sebastian Wilkes said as he turned, reaching towards the telephone base to disconnect the call.

His strangled yelp of surprise at seeing Sherlock for the first time in five years was immensely satisfying.

"Good Lord, Sherlock!" he blurted out, fumbling the phone onto the cradle. "What on —"

"Hello, Tiddly-Wilkes," Sherlock said with a smile that was all edges and sharp teeth.

Sebastian went a fascinating shade of pale grey that almost matched the lightest clouds outside, before his face took on a dark, splotchy hue. His gaze slipped over Sherlock's shoulder to the door as he started to rise, hands flat on the desk. "Don't you _dare_ call me that," he said, his voice a low growl. In his anger, his working-class accent slipped to the fore. He was so _easy_ to rattle, it was very nearly unfair.

"Come now, university wasn't that long ago," Sherlock said blandly, inviting himself to sit down. Though he kept telling himself he was above all sorts of base emotional reactions, he couldn't help but feel a growing sense of satisfaction at finally turning the table on the man who'd tried to make his brief, unfinished stint at Cambridge a living hell.

With a sickly smile, Wilkes sat back down. His eyes kept flicking to the glass door in the glass wall where employees walked past. It wouldn't do for them to see his facade crack, after all, which was half the reason Sherlock had decided on this impromptu face-to-face meeting.

"Get out," Wilkes said flatly. "I'll call security."

"And I'll call the American SEC," Sherlock said, still calm and composed. "I believe they'd be most interested in that _incident_ a few years back. What's the statute of limitations on stock fraud over there?"

The purple blotches switched direction, blooming across Wilkes' cheeks once more. "You wouldn't."

"I _would,_" Sherlock corrected. "However, that would be tedious, and I _might_ have better things to do. American stock fraud is boring. You never were very imaginative, always depending on others to do the work. Like that old girlfriend of yours — the cheerleader from Hackney, the one you almost married?"

Wilkes gave him a confused blink. "Rose? What's she —"

"What was it she called you again? 'Silky-Wilky', wasn't it? Yes, too bad about the thinning hair. I suppose it no longer fits," Sherlock said, pointedly looking at the hairline that was built not by nature but by implants.

"What the _hell_ do you want?" Wilkes shouted, before he looked out the glass wall again. His jaw clenched hard enough that muscles jumped all the way down his neck.

"Money laundering."

"What? Oh God, this is another of your cases again —"

Sherlock smiled. "I need to know the major players. So you give me names, and I'll go away."

With a haughty sniff that was almost good enough to fool a child, Wilkes said, "I've no idea. I deal strictly in legal transactions. Even the stock fraud thing was a client, not me."

"Well then, since you're too stupid to actually know anything useful, shall I ask your clients?"

Wilkes sat back, fear creeping into his expression, as though he believed Sherlock actually knew who his clients were. He didn't, of course — banking in general was boring, and Sebastian Wilkes had made banking his life — but Wilkes didn't know that. Sometimes, Sherlock found his omniscient reputation to be very useful. So he just smiled knowingly and waited for Wilkes to crack.

Angrily, Wilkes ripped a sheet off a notepad, put it on his desk, and started to write with heavy, rough scratches of his pen. Sherlock bit his lip to keep from smiling. He'd ended up cracking the stock fraud case because Wilkes' former supervisor had taken notes on a pad, leaving an impression of her writing on the pages below. Apparently, Wilkes wasn't too stupid to learn new tricks after all.

"Here," he finally said, shoving the paper across the desk. "Now get out."

"Always a pleasure," Sherlock said smoothly, picking up the paper. He considered one last parting shot, but Wilkes wasn't worth the effort. He pulled open the office door and stepped out, already looking over the paper.

Because of his work and his connections, Sherlock knew a great many people in London's criminal underground, but he was under no illusions that he knew even a tenth of the real powers out there. By narrowing the field using his knowledge of John, he could possibly cross-reference appropriately-inclined criminals with his list from the Churchill Club and finally reduce his suspect list to something manageable. White collar crime seemed in keeping with what Sherlock knew of John — his move from the bedsit to a new, comfortable flat, for one thing. He might well be a new player in the game.

Two of the names were familiar, and he recognized a third as possibly being related to a counterfeiter who'd retired before Sherlock had started working, but the sixth name down the list froze him in his tracks.

_Moriarty._

Sherlock smiled and hid the paper in an inside pocket of his jacket. It was always satisfying to be right.

* * *

It seemed like all of London was out in the overcast, taking advantage of the first rain-free day in nearly a month. Though John had originally decided to get a bit of exercise by walking and taking the tube, he'd hailed the first available taxi once he got into the crowds. He was back to using his cane, and he didn't need to take any risks with his still-tender knee.

Despite the traffic, the ride to the bistro was quick. John spent most of it looking back at the surveillance teams that had inexplicably seemed to have vanished some time in the past few days. John's experience in war had taught him to fear the enemy he _couldn't_ see, so their disappearance wasn't at all comforting — and just one more reason for this breakfast meeting.

The bistro was small and unmarked save for a brass plaque by the door. The windows were curtained, obscuring the view of the diners within. It was the type of place where John would never have pictured having breakfast. At least it wasn't as intimidating as the Churchill Club had been.

A waiter — the maitre'd? — opened the door and welcomed him inside, assessing him with a quick glance. John's coat was nothing special, but underneath, he wore one of Kate's favorite suits. Apparently, it was good enough for the waiter, who admitted him to the dining room and showed him to a table for four.

Naturally, the menu was in French, so John just ordered coffee and decided to wait for Irene's advice. After spending most of his adult life in the military, he was adventurous about food, but there were some things he definitely wouldn't eat unless the alternative was starvation.

His mobile buzzed while he was waiting. He discreetly checked it under the table; this seemed like the type of restaurant that would frown on the use of mobiles.

_Had a wonderful time last night. I'd love to see you again. Maybe Thursday night? -Jim_

John's smile was brief and conflicted. Strictly speaking, last night had been the type of perfect scene that usually only existed in dreams and bad internet fiction. John had pushed, Jim had submitted, and they fit together so damned well that by the end of it all, John had seriously been thinking if things didn't work out with Sherlock...

But he hadn't dared let himself finish the thought — not then and not now, as he sipped coffee and waited for the friends who would hopefully help him sort out his confusion. He put the mobile away without responding, hoping he'd know how to answer by the time breakfast was through.

To distract himself, he took out the anonymous BlackBerry and powered it on. There were three new texts:

_I don't yet have a name, but I am certain now that your enemy is in the military. Be careful whom you trust._

_Watch for a white man, 6 ft, with short, light-coloured hair. He followed you last night, though he went into the building across the street. Possible sniper._

_If you can tell me anything, it would be very helpful. I'm still trying, but every day that passes is one more day that you're in danger._

"Christ," John muttered, trying to push back the fear that twisted through his gut. None of the previous texts had included any sort of concrete information, such as a description. Of course 'six-foot-tall white man with short, light hair' described several thousand people in London alone, including at least two of the people John had identified as possible tails. Hell, the addition of 'possible sniper' put him in mind of Colonel Moran, who'd made his rank in part based on his skill as a sniper and his ability to put sniper teams to excellent tactical use.

Before he could get any more worried, Irene and Kate appeared, and John quickly rose to greet them, smiling with relief. Irene was as gorgeous as always, looking like she'd stepped straight off a fashion runway.

"Look at you," Irene said slyly after she kissed John. "Someone had a lovely night."

"You're impossible," he accused. Not even five seconds into their breakfast meeting and he was already blushing. He greeted Kate with a kiss and a quick hug, asking, "Can't you do anything with her?"

"Quite a bit, Captain. Would you like a list?" Kate offered.

"Stop helping," he told her, trying not to grin.

They took their seats, and Irene ordered coffee before saying, "You do look much better, John."

"Last night did help, yes," he admitted. "I'd like to come back to work, maybe Sunday?"

"As long as you're healthy," she said worriedly.

"I'm a doctor, love. I think I'd know if I needed more time to lounge around and do nothing." Irene pursed her lips thoughtfully, and John quickly interrupted her before she could object, "If I have to sit around my flat for two more weeks, I'm going to kill someone. Please."

Irene sighed and reached across the table to touch his arm. "Of course. We'll start making appointments for you right away. Your regular clients will be thrilled at your return."

Blushing all over again, John distracted her by asking for a translation of the menu. He finally settled on the simplest item on the menu, what he suspected was a complicated version of eggs and toast involving lobster.

Once the waiter had taken their orders and brought them hot fresh croissants and honey butter, Irene asked, "Now, John. What's this really about?"

"Well, it's a bit complicated," he answered thoughtfully. "Remember I said I suspected I was being followed?"

"Yes," Kate spoke up at once. "I've been keeping watch at the office, as you wanted, but I haven't spotted anyone." Irene nodded her agreement.

"I'm _certain_ I was, only now, I think they've stopped." John shrugged, toying with his coffee cup. "I identified at least four of them, and two cars, only I haven't seen any of them since before Easter."

"Well, that's good, isn't it?" Irene asked. "Perhaps you're safe to contact Sherlock now?"

John took a deep breath and put the BlackBerry on the table. "I'd say that, except for this," he explained, pushing to her. "Someone slipped that into my pocket the night I met my old army mates at a pub. I've been receiving texts on it — texts that _might_ be from him."

Irene hummed thoughtfully and picked up the mobile. As she began tapping the keyboard, Kate looked from the BlackBerry to John and asked, "Why 'might'?"

"They sound very much like him, but I _know_ the one who attacked me had access to our texts. It's a perfectly sound military principle — crack the enemy's communications network and send your own messages with enough truth that they're believable."

"Yes, I see," Irene said, frowning slightly. She looked across the table at him, her expression serious. "You know you should get rid of this, John."

He couldn't hide his flinch. "I know." He leaned back in his chair, staring down into his coffee cup. Taking it to be a signal, the waiter interrupted, refilling their cups with silent efficiency.

"This wasn't a one-night stand with him."

For one moment, John thought she was referring to last night, with Jim. Then he realized she was still talking about Sherlock. He sighed and shook his head. "It might have been, but..." He let out a rough little laugh and reached for the pitcher of cream. As he poured it into his coffee, watching the swirling bands of dark and light brown, he said, "This sounds crazy, but you didn't see him at the morgue. He was so bloody brilliant, Irene. I'm a _doctor,_ for God's sake, and it was all I could do to keep up."

"And your feelings haven't changed, even after a month."

John frowned and gave a little shake of his head. His spoon clinked against his coffee cup. "If nothing else, I owe him an explanation, only I can't do that until I know it's safe. Really safe."

"I could try to get him a message, Captain," Kate offered, though she glanced at Irene for permission.

John answered before Irene. "No. I'm not risking you — either of you. I'll... give it another week or two. If no one's following me, maybe I'll find a way to send him a note."

"What about this?" Irene asked, tapping the BlackBerry's screen with one perfect fingernail. "It's dated last night."

"That's the _other_ problem," he admitted

"Well, it bears out the theory that these texts are genuinely from your Sherlock," Kate suggested tentatively.

"Or it would do, if this unknown enemy wasn't as clever as he seems to be," Irene said.

John nodded. "Exactly what I was thinking. He makes a point of having me followed, knowing I'd pick up on it. Then stops the obvious surveillance but keeps sending the texts in hopes of catching me out."

Irene reached across the table to rest her hand on John's wrist. "You do have one other option, love. If Sherlock's truly that clever, then you could allow _him_ to —"

"No," John interrupted. "No, Irene. He's brilliant, yes, but he can barely be trusted to go out in a storm without his coat on. Don't even get me started on the frozen lake." Absently, he touched the pocket where he kept his notebook, remembering Sherlock still hadn't explained why he wasn't permitted past an allied nation's borders.

"He _does_ work with the police," Irene started.

"Which makes it all the worse. I didn't report the... attack. The last thing I need is for police to start questioning me. Which reminds me... I could use your help with something." He felt guilty asking this of anyone, especially Irene, but this wasn't exactly the type of thing he could mention to Paul Dimmock. As it was, Paul had broken enough laws getting him the files he had.

"Anything, love." Irene smiled fondly at him, then at Kate, saying, "After all you've done for both of us..." She trailed off, not actually mentioning the man John had killed to save Kate's life that night so long ago.

"You, ah, have friends on the police force, don't you?"

Her smile turned into a smirk. "Quite a few."

"They've got blood samples from the warehouse where you found me. And my DNA is on file, after my military service —"

"Say no more," Irene interrupted confidently. "They won't find a match."

* * *

_Sorry I didn't respond earlier. Breakfast meeting with my boss. Thursday sounds perfect. Your place, seven? -John_

The text came through to Jim's mobile just as he sat down to lunch. Across the table, Moran watched disapprovingly as Jim sent a quick affirmative response. Then he picked up his menu and said, "No problems last night, then?"

Moran smirked. "Other than boredom, no."

"You need to be more open-minded."

"Thanks, but no. You won't need me again for that, will you?"

Jim smiled, feeling the pleasantly deep ache in his back with every breath. "No. I'm seeing him again on Thursday."

"Wonderful. You two will be very happy together. Does this mean you're going to get off your arse and finally recruit him?"

"Why so impatient? Looking to retire?"

Moran grinned, the expression fierce on his weathered face. In answer, he took a USB drive from his pocket and tossed it onto Jim's bread plate. "When Watson sees that, you won't be able to hold him back."

"Oh?" Jim picked up the drive, turning it in his fingers.

"I got the whole Operation TALENT file before it was deleted. And I mean _deleted_ — not just taken off the main server and archived somewhere. Holmes ordered the drive scrubbed and paper copies incinerated."

Slowly, Jim smiled at the confirmation that Holmes had been running the whole operation without oversight. "Mycroft's been a bad boy," he said, unable to hold back a laugh as he made the USB drive disappear into his jacket.

"So?"

"Hm?"

Moran sighed. "Are you going to tell Watson? He asked for my help nearly two weeks ago. I need to give him _something_."

Jim rolled his eyes. As if Moran's friendship with John was _really_ that significant, in the greater scheme of things? "I've arranged a little test for him this weekend — a party with a few of my clients. We'll see how he handles that."

"A party with your clients. The only 'party' I can imagine with your clients involves guns."

"Actually, that's the whole point. I'll need one of those US Marine guns you shipped in from Camp Dwyer last week."

Moran couldn't hide his startled twitch. "What?"

"Don't think I don't know about your arms smuggling business, Sebastian. Now get me one of those weapons — and the appropriate uniform, in John's size. Make it all black. He'd look better in black than in desert camo. Don't you agree?"

* * *

Mycroft allowed himself a moment of satisfaction as the undersecretary for the defence minister made his way out the door. It truly had been a productive meeting. Both men had risen to exactly where they wanted to be, and then contrived to _stay_ there. Minor roles in the British government were just so much more useful than the big flashy in-for-a-few-years-then-out-with-a-change-in-government positions. Mycroft did so appreciate those few others who'd made similar realizations.

"Sir." His substitute assistant entered the office carrying several files in her hands. "The raw data on the import-export company you requested, and the notes for your next meeting, for which the manager's secretary informs me he's ten minutes behind schedule today. You have a few extra minutes before you need to leave."

"Excellent."

She set down only half of the files she was carrying, and then slid a sheet of paper onto the top. "Also, regarding Operation TALENT..." She frowned, and Mycroft's attention sharpened; officially, TALENT had never happened. "The records have been expunged as you directed, but I'd been reviewing the access logs as I was collecting the hard copy prior to incineration. I believe there's a discrepancy."

"What sort of discrepancy?" Mycroft's voice was cool, oiled silk slipping through the night.

His temporary assistant shivered, prey scenting a predator in the wind. "Martens was assigned as shift leader on the second of April, sir, so it would have been reasonable for him to access the TALENT file the morning in question. But at the specific time he was supposed to have accessed the file, we were having a discussion on how _not_ to spill coffee on me. It rather _seared_ its way into my memory, if you will, since it made me late to another meeting."

By the tone of her voice, the other meeting had been less than pleasant. He had no doubt that her supervisor, whoever that was, had spoken to her quite firmly about her tardiness. So her memory of the time and date of the incident in question with Martens was likely to be accurate.

Mycroft leaned back in his chair as he studied his temporary assistant. She'd been trained and prepped to work with him, so she was certainly competent, but this showed the type of sharp intellect that he sought in his assistants. She might be worth watching, even beyond her time in his front office.

"You were gathering that paperwork last week, no?" he asked. "Hasn't it all been destroyed?"

"Yes, sir. But Martens stopped by my desk this morning, sir, to have me sign off on another project's documentation, and that reminded me of the access log I reviewed last Friday, before I had it incinerated. It's not possible that Martens logged into that file when it said he did, sir."

So someone had used Martens' identity to access the TALENT records. Mycroft leaned forward to pick up the page on top of the files. It was divided into two columns of names, all people with Secret-and-higher access.

"I assembled a list of those who could have had access to a level 'Secret' computer that time, sir, both here and remotely," she continued. "I cross-referenced those whom I could verify were both logged in and verifiably at their workstations at the relevant time. Unless someone has found a way around our login requirements — in which case we have other problems, sir — then the people in column B were otherwise occupied." She tapped the relevant column. "This leaves thirty-two possible individuals not otherwise accounted for, listed here in column A."

She put the rest of her files on the desk. Mycroft immediately saw each file corresponded with one of the names in column A. She'd anticipated precisely what he would have requested; he _definitely_ would keep an eye on her.

Curious, he scanned the file tabs, mentally assessing each person. Field agents and spies were terribly useful but equally untrustworthy. It was the bane of the intelligence business, having to deal with them at all, living in a state of constant suspicion and yet being required to actually _trust_ them. The only way to keep them in check was to maintain rigid internal security protocols and to never, ever fully trust any of them.

He paused, extracting one of the files, and flipped it open. _Moran, Sebastian. Codename PILOT._ His office entry-and-exit log showed he'd reported to work on 2 April at 0742 and left at 1815. He'd most likely had lunch at the cafeteria; most people did, rather than going back through the security checkpoint. There was a list of the times he'd logged into the Secret database, both at his own workstation and at others, throughout the day. He was, in fact, logged in at the time in question.

But what had his temporary assistant said? _Not verifiably present at the station where he'd been logged in._

Interesting.

"Let's start by upgrading PILOT to surveillance level Tango. Maximum discretion," he said, and picked up the next file from the stack of suspects. The thought of running thirty-two Tango-level surveillance operations simultaneously on internal asset was enough to give anyone nightmares. He'd have to hire more analysts to assist with managing the data. He had a feeling he was going to drastically exceed his surveillance budget for the coming months, but he'd find a way to bury the costs.

* * *

Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Willing himself not to feel his headache was no longer working. The strain of focusing on grainy pictures, bad text, and the glowing laptop screen was finally bad enough to interfere with his concentration. His lack of sleep probably didn't help.

He might well have to steal Mycroft's CAC card again. If he could access the proper MoD database, he could finish this search in a matter of hours. As things stood now, unless he got lucky, he was looking at potentially _weeks_ of manually cross-referencing and searching. And he didn't believe in _luck_.

Part of the issue was the popularity of the Churchill Club. There were over two thousand names on the membership roster, and while only two hundred and sixty-one of them had appeared on the log Sherlock had printed out, the club was apparently lax about proper recordkeeping. It mixed the visitor's log with reservations for meeting rooms and tables, which meant that some visitors weren't listed on the log at all, and other names on the log belonged to members who might not have even shown up.

Perhaps this required a more direct approach. Unfortunately, even with his acting skills, he'd be hard-pressed to impersonate a military officer, but perhaps he could impersonate Mycroft. It wouldn't be the first time. It was ridiculous how often people didn't even look at the photographs on identification cards.

He heard noise downstairs — Lestrade's familiar knock, followed by Mrs. Hudson answering the door, saving Sherlock the trouble of rising. For once, he hoped Lestrade wasn't bringing him a case. He wasn't certain he could concentrate without something to help him, and he was _positive_ John wouldn't approve if he resorted to cocaine, no matter how tired he was. He did put on a third nicotine patch, judging that to be more acceptable than the cocaine, and waited for Lestrade.

But it was Mrs. Hudson who finally came up the steps, tapping the door to the flat before she pushed it open. "Sherlock? There you are, dear," she said. In her arms, she carried a white plastic takeaway bag that filled the flat with the smell of Chinese food — fried rice, eggrolls, and Mandarin chicken.

"Where's Lestrade?"

"Busy." Her smile took on a sparkling, girlish quality as she brought the bag over to the couch. "He and that pretty Molly just popped by to bring you this." Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper as she added, "I think they're going on a date! Isn't that just lovely?"

"Why come here, then?"

"Greg knows you don't eat nearly enough, so you just tuck into this," she said, putting the bag down. "I've got to get back to mine. Wasn't that sweet of them to think of us?"

The question must have been rhetorical. She left before Sherlock could force an answer through the fog of exhaustion that was slowly creeping through his brain. He'd slept a bit after coming home on Sunday, but that had been a brief kip on the couch, and he'd been awake ever since.

He wasn't hungry until the smell really hit him. Much as he hated to distract himself, he _did_ need to eat something and get a little sleep. John would be furious to find him in this state. With a resigned sigh, he untied the bag and pushed it open to reveal not just styrofoam boxes but a small parcel wrapped in brown paper.

Curious, he ripped it open and took out a black leather holster sized perfectly for his illegal pistol. A folded printout was tucked into the springy black metal belt clip: a newspaper article about a street thug who'd carried a pistol in his pocket until he'd managed to shoot himself in the —

_Oh,_ Sherlock thought, wincing. He skimmed the rest of the article, noting that the surgeons hadn't been able to actually repair most of the damage.

He picked up the holster, regarding it thoughtfully. Lestrade hadn't given it to Sherlock to be practical. This wasn't just Lestrade's way of keeping a useful resource safe. It was the type of thing a friend would do. He _cared_.

Deciding to analyze the odd way he was feeling later, Sherlock picked up his phone and sent Lestrade a quick text. Then he opened the top container, found the chopsticks, and started to eat, turning his attention back to the laptop.

* * *

"I feel bad for her, you know?" Lestrade said, conscious of the distance between his leg and Molly's. She could've put the takeaway boxes on the bench seat between them, but she had them on her lap instead, and was sitting only a few inches away — closer than was necessary. "She has to put up with Sherlock all on her own."

"She's very sweet," Molly agreed, turning to smile at him. "So are you."

Lestrade reminded himself that Molly was the type of person to see good in everyone and that he shouldn't read into her compliment too much. Still, there was a hopeful edge to his voice when he said, "You're the one who let him live with you for four days."

"Yes, well... I've always liked him," she said, glancing out the taxi window. "I mean, he's rude almost all the time. Sometimes he's just awful. But he's very smart."

"And you're _too_ nice, putting up with him the way you do."

"You work with him all the time."

"Yeah, but I don't let him get away with... all that much," Lestrade finished hesitantly, considering he'd returned Sherlock's illegal pistol to him last night, after spending almost four hours illegally reviewing CCTV footage.

Shit.

Molly smiled at him again. "You're a good friend."

Before Lestrade could think of a way to get Sherlock out of the conversation, his mobile buzzed. He muttered an apology, hoping it wasn't work, and dug it out of his pocket.

_Thank you. -SH_

He stared at it, even going so far as to check the phone number to verify that it really was from Sherlock. "You might be right," he said, extending the phone to show Molly the text.

She put her hand over his to tilt the mobile in her direction. "Oh," she said quietly, just as surprised as he was. "See? Even he thinks you are."

"I suppose so," Lestrade said, and managed to put the mobile back in his pocket without letting go of her hand.

* * *

Distracting as it was to eat and type at the same time, Sherlock was determined to continue searching until he collapsed from exhaustion. He was already on the sofa, and his bed wasn't currently usable, buried as it was under the plastic-wrapped dry cleaning Mrs. Hudson had brought up earlier. Sherlock couldn't be bothered to hang his suits at the moment, and Mrs. Hudson knew better than to try; she always sorted them incorrectly.

At least he had his search process perfected. Take each name from the Churchill Club's membership roster. Google for any information. If nothing was found, mark the page and move on to the next name. If Google did give any useful information, review. If the information was enough to eliminate the suspect, cross out the name and move to the next. Otherwise, mark for further research. It was mindlessly boring and the type of thing he'd prefer to farm out to someone else, like Lestrade, but it had to be done.

He had finished with the fried rice and started on the Mandarin chicken, in the bottom box, when a Google search of 'Sebastian Moran' pulled up an article in Time magazine, dated eight years ago. _Britain's Stealthy War_ was printed beneath the picture of a man in profile.

A very familiar profile.

Shoving the food aside, Sherlock dug through his papers until he found the printout of the surveillance footage. He put the printed image up next to his screen, comparing the two men. Same nose; same chin. The CCTV had been black and white, so he couldn't confirm eye color or hair color beyond 'light'. Haircut was too easily changed. But still...

It was the same man.

Dropping the photo, Sherlock opened the article.

_Major Sebastian Moran never hesitates when tasked with pulling the trigger. The Royal Army veteran has served in 'more locations than I can disclose,' he explained to embedded journalist Brian Mitchell at Prince Sultan Airbase, Saudi Arabia. Major Moran is one of Britain's elite snipers, though these days, his job involves command decisions on a broader scale than a sniper's single target._

_'I've been there in the field. I think that gives my men a greater sense of confidence, knowing I've been where they are now.'_

_Command has come easy to Major Moran, who has been described as a natural leader. When asked if he prefers his desk job, he answered, 'I still keep my hand in. Ask any sniper, and he'll say the same thing: It's in my blood.'_

Sherlock leaned back, staring up at the ceiling as he considered his options. He needed more information on Sebastian Moran. He needed to confirm, beyond any doubt, that Moran was his target. He didn't trust instinct — he trusted facts, evidence, and logic.

At least now, he had a place to start. With a name and a description, his Homeless Network could find anyone in London. Meanwhile, he'd make contact with criminals who owed him favors and see precisely how Moran was in competition with John. He doubted it was drugs — John seemed very opposed to that sort of thing, even when chemical stimulation could be useful — but the other possibilities were nearly infinite. Then, once he knew everything there was to know about Sebastian Moran, he'd be able to design the perfect trap.


	12. Chapter 12

**Monday, 19 April 2010**

"Oh, John, she's lovely," Irene said, smiling at the picture on the screen. He'd taken it two Saturdays ago, at the park, when Lizzie had run off to chase pigeons. Lizzie was too young to fully understand the divorce between Clara and Harry, but Clara had full custody and was raising her right. Though it broke John's heart, that meant raising her away from Harry's self-destructive influence.

Thank God Clara was willing to let him be a part of Lizzie's life, though his exact role was still up in the air. Not that he was cut out to be a father. Really, all he'd done was provide the genetic material from the Watson side of the family. All very scientific and clinical, right down to leaving his name off the official papers, except for the necessary legal records at the clinic.

"How old is she?"

"She'll be three in September."

Irene glanced at John, then back at the screen, and softly said, "She looks like you."

John shifted uncomfortably and said, "Yes, well. A disproportionate number of children are born with blond hair and blue eyes. She'll grow out of it."

"Mmm, if you say so." Too polite to disagree, she said, "I'd love to meet her one day."

He stared at her, seeing the calm, certain way she met his gaze. Finally, he looked away, wishing that Kate would come in already and interrupt. "No one knows, except Harry and Clara. My name isn't even on the birth certificate."

"I won't breathe a word," Irene promised, finally opening the text rather than staring at John's background picture. "'Need your help. Save me from a social nightmare. I'll do anything in return.' Signed 'Jim'," she read curiously. "The one who's been subbing for you for the last two weeks?"

"God, has it only been two weeks?"

"That's all you've told me about," Irene said, looking over as Kate finally entered, carrying a tray of deep, round coffee cups. "I take it that you've been enjoying yourself?"

"Immensely, though it's... turned a bit odd," John said, leaning forward to take the offered coffee. "Thanks, love. You know, I don't know what I've missed more — work or the after-hours drinks."

"I don't even rate a spot on your list?" Kate asked, pouting at him before she extended the tray to Irene.

"Cheeky girl," Irene scolded, picking up her cup. "Odd, how?" she asked John. Kate took the last cup and sat down at Irene's feet, leaning against her leg.

"I went over — Speaking of which, you can go ahead and start actually booking me with clients," he added sternly to Kate. "I'm not an invalid. I'd like to get back to actually working."

Kate avoided meeting his eyes. "Yes, Captain."

"I told her to go easy," Irene said, stroking Kate's hair. "But if you're certain —"

"I am," he interrupted.

"Then you can go ahead and book him through Christmas," she told Kate.

"Anyway," John continued, "I went over there, and this 'party' of his was fancy dress or white tie. And no, I didn't wear leather."

"Even I might be tempted to pay to see you in a proper tuxedo," Irene said thoughtfully.

"Try American Marine battle dress — complete with weapons," John said wryly. "As in, an extremely illegal automatic rifle, with ammunition."

Irene frowned just slightly as she sipped her coffee. Her other hand paused, fingers threaded lightly through Kate's hair. "I see."

"It's all a bit _too_ easily explained," John said bluntly. "He's a barista — obviously a good one, perhaps even better than you, Kate. Then no, he's not; he's only doing it to have a bit of spending money while his lawyer sorts out a financial mess. And by the way, he _owns_ a very expensive loft in a better part of town."

"It sounds —"

"Not done yet," John interrupted grimly. "_Then_ he's actually got a bloody doctorate in maths, _and_ he worked in government, which is how he ended up getting into this financial mess in the first place. Oh, and by the way, some of his investment partners may not be what they seem, so I end up going to this party with him as his bloody _bodyguard_."

Irene resumed her idle petting, staring distantly over John's shoulder. "It does seem a bit unlikely."

"A bit," John agreed bluntly. He set down his coffee cup and reached beneath his shirt collar to take off the identity tags he was still wearing, though he couldn't quite explain why. "And then, when we were in the car on the way to the party, he gave me these."

Kate took the offered tags and passed them to Irene. "Sterling silver?" she asked immediately, weighing them in her palm.

"The _name,_ Irene."

She held the tags up, looking at the engraved name. "It's yours."

"I never told him my middle initial."

Irene frowned, running her thumb over the engraving. "Perhaps he saw it in your wallet? Did you pay for dinner with a credit card at some point?"

"I don't use my middle name. It's nowhere except in my records — medical, school, and military."

"So which one did he see?" Irene asked softly.

John nodded. "More to the point, what was he looking for?"

* * *

John snapped awake, slapping his left hand down to the holstered SIG concealed under the duvet as he opened his eyes to see a faint glow. The SIG was fitted to his palm before he recognized the buzzing vibration of a text alert, attenuated by the makeshift cardboard bedside table he still hadn't yet replaced with actual furniture.

He let go of the SIG and snatched up the mobile, heart pounding. Beyond the light from the tiny screen, his room was as dark as the caves where he'd led his men, sometimes to hunt the enemy, sometimes into a trap.

_How long does it take for a gunshot wound to stop bleeding?_

"Fucking hell," he whispered, fingers fumbling over the keyboard as he realized Sherlock had done something stupid _again_.

_Why are you texting me? Go to A&E. How did you get shot?_

He fired off the text as he kicked off the blankets. Unless Sherlock was in a different country — which wasn't outside the realm of possibility — John would have to go find him. Otherwise, it might take an hour to talk him into going to hospital or calling emergency services. He got out of bed and started typing another text as he went for his dresser.

_Call 999. Where are you?_

He put the mobile down on the dresser, opened the drawer, found pants and socks. The mobile glowed and buzzed again, apparently set to vibrate mode, which was odd. Every time he accidentally set his phone to vibrate and someone rang, he jumped like he'd been stung.

_The warehouse. I need you here. It's safe now, I promise._

He balanced, one hand on the dresser, and got into his pants. He tossed the socks onto the bed and opened the wardrobe to find jeans. The movement finally got his blood flowing and chased the last fog of sleep and nightmare from his brain.

He dropped the hanger and snatched at the phone, only then realizing it wasn't _his _phone. It was the BlackBerry.

His first thought was that he'd _answered_ it. If the texts were a trap, he'd fallen for it without hesitation, because he was half-asleep and he really could see Sherlock getting himself shot.

But god, what if it _wasn't_ fake? Could he really take that risk?

Of course not. But he didn't have to rush in blindly.

_What warehouse?_

It took Sherlock (or whoever it was) a minute to answer, long enough for John to put on his socks and one of his old, washed-soft T-shirts. It was sand-coloured, meant to be worn under a uniform, but it was comfortable and he'd hide it under a black button-down and jumper.

_The one where he took you. It seemed fitting. I brought him here for you._

For a moment, John stared at the text, not even breathing. It was Sherlock. It _had to be_ Sherlock. John would still go in cautiously, treating it as enemy territory, but somewhere inside, he _believed_.

_I'm on my way._

Leaving the blue jeans on the floor of the wardrobe, he found black jeans instead, and used one foot to pull out his black combat boots. A glance at the bedside clock showed it was just after three in the morning; he'd had less than an hour of sleep. He'd worked with less, and night was actually better for him. At night, he knew how to be invisible.

* * *

Mycroft's mobile blared out an alarm to wake the dead, wrenching him from the comfort of sleep in a daze. He rolled over and picked up the BlackBerry, calming his mind at once before his thoughts could stray to considerations of nuclear or chemical or biological attacks. He'd already had his nuclear scare for the year courtesy of his dear brother. Besides, this wasn't the national security alert klaxon, though it was a matter of urgency.

_Surveillance Team MECHANIC found incapacitated. Subject PILOT missing. Visual search of surveillance footage reveals anomalous visitor to PILOT's residence. Subject identified as Sherlock Holmes. PILOT's residence clear and vacant. Request further instructions._

Mycroft's first instinct was that he was still dreaming. Why on earth would Sherlock be at Sebastian Moran's residence? What precisely did 'incapacitated' mean? The team assigned to watch Moran was made up of Mycroft's finest covert operatives — a necessity, given the formidable skills of their target.

He threw back the blankets and rose to get dressed. His team lead would be giving proper orders. Already, the photo analysts would be swarming to the office to review CCTV footage and find Moran's location. The area for four blocks around his residence had been saturated by new cameras; if he was out of the house, with Sherlock or not, his analysts would find which way he'd gone.

As he crossed to his ensuite, he dialled the photo analysis desk. He gave his identification and said, "Review the feed at two-hundred-twenty-one bee Baker Street. I need a location for subject Sherlock Holmes."

"Please hold, sir."

He switched the mobile to speaker and pressed mute so he could quickly shave. Apparently, he wouldn't be sleeping any time soon. After drying his face, he sent a quick text to his driver.

"Sir," the analyst said, as Mycroft was heading for his walk-in closet.

"What do you have for me?" He turned off speaker-mode and tucked the phone against his shoulder so he could sort through his suits. The dark charcoal would show the fewest wrinkles, just in case he needed to nap on the sofa for a few minutes. He chose an aggressive red and gold silk tie to offset the muted shade of the suit.

"Mr. Holmes departed the residence at twenty-one-fifty-one yesterday, sir. He hasn't returned."

"Thank you," Mycroft said automatically, disconnecting the call as a pit of ice started to form in his stomach. Whatever was happening, the odds that his wayward brother was involved had just gone up substantially.

* * *

_The bullet went all the way through my arm, two inches below my shoulder._

_Through as in entry and exit wounds? Or is it a graze?_

_A graze, I think. I couldn't see clearly through my sleeve, and if I unwrap it, the bleeding will get worse._

_Is it wrapped tightly? You need to keep pressure on it._

_Yes._

_All right. Try not to move._

_Are you close?_

_I'll be there as soon as I can. Fifteen minutes at most._

* * *

The last text was a lie; John had already arrived and scouted enough of the area to know no one was obviously lurking about on guard. He sent the text from the weed-choked yard where he'd been pulled out of the car boot six weeks earlier. He immediately turned off the mobile and hid it in an inside pocket of his jacket, and then did the same with his other phone. The last thing he needed was the noise of a text giving away his location.

After a moment's consideration, he set his cane aside. He'd have to move quietly, quickly, and the cane would just get in his way. If things got ugly, he'd be able to push past the pain. Worrying about escape would come later, if he made it that far.

He drew the SIG and silently unclipped the holster, switching it to the outside of his jeans so the hard plastic edges didn't press against his back. Then he leaned against the building, eyes closed, taking deep breaths as he reviewed what he remembered of the interior. Thank God he'd thought to return a couple of weeks ago. More than one of his fellow soldiers had mocked his habit of collecting dirt wherever he went, but this time, it been an opportunity to get the layout of the building.

Since he'd left his flat fifteen minutes ago to find a taxi, he'd been fighting the urge to call for backup. If Murray and Vanterpool ever found out he'd gone in alone, they'd kill him themselves, but that was fine. They weren't soldiers anymore, signed up to risk their lives for queen and country and their fellow soldiers. They were civilians, and John had no right to ask them to bleed for him. They'd already done everything they could to help; the rest was up to him.

* * *

At this late hour, the London streets were unusually empty, though not deserted. The car idled at a red light, and Mycroft fought to hide impatience and anxiety. He caught himself tapping a finger on his mobile and clenched the plastic tightly to stop himself.

It took an interminable ninety seconds for the light to change, and another fifteen for his agent to finally speak: "Sir. We have confirmation from the taxi driver. He dropped them off in Croydon, at —"

"The warehouse." Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose as he disconnected the call. He pressed the intercom to his driver and said, "Change of plans. Croydon, all possible speed. Break laws."

As the car lurched forward, Mycroft dialled his beta team leader, currently in charge of the hunt for Moran and Mycroft's meddling brother. "Get your team to Croydon," he ordered, giving the address of the warehouse. "Surround the building but take no further action without my orders."

* * *

John moved as quietly as he could down the hallway, the ache in his leg all but forgotten. Cautiously, he looked into each room that he passed. On the street side, faint light shone through broken windows; the rooms at the back of the building, facing another wall of brick and glass, were too dark for him to see more than a few feet. He didn't dare turn on his torch, even though the red lens would keep his nightvision mostly unaffected.

The only light in the building was up ahead, in the room where John had been held six weeks earlier. The light was at an odd angle, as if it came from a torch dropped on the floor. Methodically, John worked his way towards it, keeping his eyes averted until he'd checked the last room. Then he stared at the glow that came through the doorway, giving his eyes a chance to adjust.

Just two weeks ago, he'd practiced nighttime urban infiltration, under Gottlieb's expert instruction. It had been a game, a challenge she'd issued once they were both bored of distance-sniping in the rain. Now, he was grateful for the practice.

Slowly, he knelt down, inhaling as he shifted the SIG to a steady one-handed grip. With his free hand, he took a signal mirror from his pocket. Holding it at a sharp angle, he slid it over in front of the open doorway, avoiding the beam of light, and tilted it so he could see.

The torch was on the floor, a small black Mag-lite — not the type of thing carried by security guards to club people over the head. Steel legs of a chair. Trainers, bare ankles surrounded by ropes binding them messily to the chair. John couldn't help but notice that the rope was thin, white clothesline, not meant for bondage. It was wrapped in tight loops crossing over themselves, messy but effective, and the visible knots looked secure.

He tilted the mirror a bit more and followed the steel lines of the chair up to hands, suntanned skin coated with blood, wrists cuffed through the bars at the back of the chair. Hiatt police-issue rigid cuffs. The chair was facing the far wall, so all he could see of the victim was fine silver-blond hair and a hint of profile.

_Your enemy is in the military,_ the text had said two weeks ago. He remembered thinking the description could have been Colonel Moran.

_Oh, Christ,_ he thought, heart jumping with sudden shock, because it _was_ Moran.

He stopped himself from rushing in and instead deliberately made a noise. If it was Sherlock in there with a weapon, John had no desire to get shot because of a twitchy trigger finger. If it was someone else, perhaps he could lure his enemy into sight.

The bound figure immediately struggled, scraping the legs of the chair against the rough concrete floor, stopping only when a familiar voice growled, "Don't!"

_Sherlock._

John threw caution to the winds and rose, rushing inside, sweeping the SIG through the room as he searched for threats — not that he could _possibly_ classify what was actually a threat at the moment, because the only one who was armed was Sherlock, holding a matte black pistol aimed right at Colonel Moran's head.


	13. Chapter 13

**Monday, 19 April 2010**

John slowly pointed the SIG down, letting the signal mirror fall from his hand. His breath hitched when he saw the bloodstained scarf tied around Sherlock's upper arm. His overcoat was a black heap in the shadowy corner of the room. The sleeve of his once-grey button-down shirt was blood-dark and sticking to his skin, but his hands weren't shaking, and though the indirect light from the torch served only to highlight his pallor, he seemed healthy, not in shock.

"John," he whispered, lips curving up in a smile.

Throwing one last glance into the hallway, John stepped forward. "Sherlock." He had to clear his throat to keep his voice from breaking. "Put the gun down. I'm here now."

"Watson?" Moran barked, though he stopped with a flinch when Sherlock nudged him with the pistol.

He didn't look away from Sherlock — _couldn't_ look away. "Colonel," he said, trying to put an edge of warning into his voice. "Sherlock, it's all right."

"Watson, _do something,_" Moran demanded.

"One more word, and I'll shoot you and save him the trouble," Sherlock snapped, for the first time looking away from John to glare angrily at Moran.

"Sherlock," John said coldly, feeling sick inside as he remembered ordering Sherlock out of Irene's house. Sherlock had responded, though, so John used that same commanding tone now as he said, "You're not to shoot anyone. Put the gun down. _Now_."

After a moment, Sherlock stepped back and lowered the weapon, though he kept it in his hand. John relaxed fractionally, though he was still swept up in the adrenaline high. But then he looked to Sherlock's bloody arm and felt a measure of calm settle into his brain as his medical training kicked in. There was no immediate danger, and Sherlock needed him. With a bit of fumbling, John holstered the SIG at his back.

"Let me see to your arm," he said, walking deeper into the room so he could unobtrusively get a closer look at Colonel Moran. Bloodsplattered clothing. No obvious wounds except for a dark bruise around his left eye and cheek, eyes focused — and full of rage. The thought of turning his back to that anger was enough to make John shiver and gesture Sherlock back to the corner where he'd been lurking out of Moran's line-of-sight.

"Arms dealing, wasn't it?" Sherlock asked, his gaze fixed wholly on John, intense and full of satisfaction. "Once I knew where to look, it was easy. Probably started in Kuwait, Iraq, then Afghanistan, and then continued over here. Diverted military shipments, contacts in North Africa, Ireland, France —"

"Do I even want to know what the hell you're talking about?" John finally asked as he got the bloody scarf untied.

"Moran. He's selling misappropriated military weapons." Sherlock holstered the gun — a small holdout-type weapon — at his side. Then, tentatively, he reached out to touch John's shoulder. "He's also dealing in classified intelligence. I know you don't approve of that."

John took a ragged breath. This was a little too much to sort through all at once. He focused on peeling the torn sleeve away from Sherlock's wounded arm. "Right. It's a graze, not a through-and-through," he said, proud of how steady his voice was. It helped that he was avoiding looking into Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock's grip on his shoulder tightened, but only for a moment. "I'll be fine. I wish I'd called you sooner, but I wanted to make certain he couldn't... _do_ anything," he finished with an odd emphasis.

"Right." Forewarned by Sherlock's text, John had brought a pressure bandage, tape, and a preloaded syringe of morphine; Bill Murray wasn't the only one who kept illicit emergency supplies on hand. He got the syringe out of his pocket, ripped it out of the paper wrapper, and tugged Sherlock's sleeve up a bit. "This will sting."

"It's fine," Sherlock insisted as John eased the needle into his skin and depressed the plunger. Then he looked over John's shoulder and snapped at Moran, "Stop moving!"

John heard the rattle of the cuffs on Moran's wrists. "Sherlock. He's not a threat, I promise," John insisted, looking into Sherlock's eyes. "Focus on me, not him. All right?"

Reluctantly, Sherlock looked back at John, his uncharacteristically fierce expression easing. "I'm sorry." His hand slid from John's shoulder to his neck, thumb tracing along his jawline. "You never answered my texts."

None of this made sense. Had Sherlock been anyone else, John would have assumed he'd gone insane. The story of arms dealing, the apparent assault and kidnapping that so closely mirrored what had happened to John — none of it made _any _sense.

"We'll discuss it later," John said, thinking he had no choice. Now he _had_ to call on Paul Dimmock for help, though he had no idea how the hell he was going to keep Colonel Moran from pressing charges.

He couldn't afford to waste time to let the morphine kick in completely. He ripped open the sleeve of Sherlock's shirt, being as careful of the wound as he could, and then dug in his pocket to find the sterile pressure bandage. He ripped open the wrapping, thinking he probably should've put on gloves or sterilized the wound, but he'd worked under worse conditions in the field. He held the bandage over the wound and used his teeth to rip strips off the roll of tape so he could secure it in place.

Once the bandage was secured, John looked back into Sherlock's eyes and started to speak, but he lost his words at the look on Sherlock's face, so full of hope and not a little bit of smugness.

Colonel Moran had sent John into the desert, into death's arms, and had brought him back out again. He'd earned John's loyalty a dozen times over. More than that, Moran had offered to help John find the bastard behind his kidnapping, and though he had yet to actually find any useful information, John had acknowledged the debt.

John knew that he should disarm Sherlock, free Colonel Moran, call the police, and turn Sherlock in for kidnapping. And had it been anyone else, he would've done just that. But Sherlock, for all his strangeness, was also bloody brilliant. If he said Colonel Moran was an arms dealer, then there _had to be_ something to it.

John trusted Colonel Moran with his life. But he trusted Sherlock Holmes even more.

"You're completely mad, you know," John said softly.

"I forgive you," Sherlock answered, leaning down to kiss him.

* * *

Mycroft's driver was fast, but his team's vehicles were equipped with emergency lights and his wasn't. By the time Mycroft got out of his car, the warehouse was already surrounded. Major Aruna Sonde, beta team leader, jogged over to him, one hand pressed to her radio earpiece. "Sir. Ready to go on your word," she said.

"No fatalities, Major — this is strictly capture-and-secure."

"Yes, sir," she confirmed, and repeated his words over the radio for emphasis, though he was certain her soldiers were already aware of the restriction. Then she looked back at him.

"My brother is inside, Major. I can only imagine what condition he's in. It's very likely, though, that he'll be... agitated. Your men are _not_ to antagonize him. Whatever he's up to, I'll sort it out. Your priority is his safety, followed by Colonel Moran's. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir. A moment to pass along your orders," she said. When he nodded, she walked a short distance away.

With a faint sigh, Mycroft sorted through the email notifications that had been buzzing through to his mobile since he'd arrived. Not a minute on-site and already he had ten new emails. No, eleven. Requests for information, requests for instructions, advisements. Ah, there was confirmation that Sherlock was not, in fact, at the Baker Street flat. How useful to know at this late stage in the game. He'd have to fire someone over this — perhaps several someones.

"Sir," Major Sonde said, returning to his side. "Confirmed, sir. The team leaders have file photos of Mr. Holmes and have passed your orders to all sections."

"Very well, Major. Proceed," he ordered.

With a crisp nod, she turned away, saying, "All sections, move in!"

Two dramatically loud bangs signalled the violent opening of industrial metal doors on either side of the building. Mycroft started towards the nearest, following Sonde and her two aides as they walked, swiftly but with dignity, after the fast-moving soldiers.

* * *

At the loud crash from both ends of the hallway, John sprang away from Sherlock. His bad leg buckled, threatening to give out, and he slapped a hand against the wall for balance. The roll of medical tape went flying as his boot crushed the syringe underfoot.

"That's not the police," Sherlock warned, drawing his weapon.

"Put that away!" John ordered. He drew his SIG right-handed — the holster was oriented backwards — and switched it to a two-hand grip, left hand dominant. "Get down in the corner," he snapped, moving for the door.

Red lights were bobbing in the hallway. He heard voices calling 'Clear!' over the sound of boots.

Before John could peek out, Sherlock shouted loudly enough to be heard outside the building: "Stop or Moran dies!"

_"What?"_ John demanded in a harsh, low voice. He looked back and saw Sherlock's pistol pressed to Moran's head. "Sherlock, _no._ I am _not_ letting you kill him!"

"You don't have to kill him yourself," Sherlock protested.

"Watson, you owe —" Moran cut off, his whole body gone tense, as Sherlock stepped closer, pushing his head to the side with the muzzle of the pistol.

"This is the police! You're surrounded!" came the shout from the hallway.

"Don't be stupid! You're not the police!" Sherlock called back contemptuously. Then, as calmly as if he were offering John a cup of tea, he said, "He's your enemy."

"He is _not_ my enemy, Sherlock," John said, baffled. Sherlock was self-destructive and brilliant and obsessive, but he wasn't homicidal. He wasn't delusional. "I'm not going to let you kill him!"

"You heard him!" Moran snapped. "You're not _allowed_ to kill me."

Sherlock deliberately switched his aim to Moran's knee. "He didn't say I can't hurt you."

"Sherlock!" John took a step towards him, reaching for the weapon, wondering if he could snatch it from Sherlock's grasp.

"Mr. Holmes? You need to release Mr. Moran immediately!" one of the soldiers yelled.

"He's the reason you pushed me away," Sherlock told John, sounding equally confused. "To protect me from _him_."

"I didn't —" Moran hissed as Sherlock prodded at his bruised cheek with the pistol.

"Sherlock, _stop,_" John ordered. "He's innocent. You have to let him go!"

"Innocent?" Sherlock's gaze snapped back to him, disbelieving. "In the last six months, he's sold almost a quarter million pounds worth of weapons stolen from armories and depots in Germany, Iraq, and India."

Moran snapped out, "Watson!"

Sherlock smacked the pistol against his face almost contemptuously, silencing him. Coldly, he continued, "Before that, he arranged for transportation of morphine bricks from Afghanistan to Bangkok for processing into heroin. The assassinations are almost insignificant by comparison."

John would have accused anyone else of being completely wrong, but not Sherlock — not when he was so confident, so certain, so _detailed_ in his report. And while Moran's tension might have been because of the gun digging into his face, it could also be the result of guilt.

"Mr. Holmes! Send Mr. Moran out —"

"All right!" John called towards the door, before he turned back to Sherlock. "Who are they? Do you know?"

"Special Intelligence Services. They're government, but —"

"Thank you. Yes, I know who they are," John said tightly. "Put the gun away."

"But —"

"Sherlock! Now," he ordered, glaring until Sherlock holstered the weapon. "Just stay calm. We'll figure out something," he advised, making his way to the doorway.

As soon as he looked out, a torch swept over him and a male voice barked, "Step out of the doorway, hands up!"

Christ, there were a lot of them. He counted seven in the hallway to the right, and he ducked back into the room before he could see more than a few off to the left. Most likely eighteen or twenty soldiers, and possibly the same number outside, surrounding the building.

Quickly, he crouched and put his SIG down out of sight of the doorway. He gave it a kick across the room, to the corner opposite Sherlock, before he stepped out into the hall, hands raised. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye — Sherlock — but before John could turn and see what he was doing, the soldiers were on him, kicking him to the floor, frisking him for weapons. One found the empty holster at his back and shouted, "He's got a gun! Find it!"

They ran over him, past him, into the room, and John heard Sherlock shout, "Get off me!"

"Sherlock! Don't fight!" John yelled to him, though he fell silent when one of the soldiers prodded him between the shoulders with a rifle. Someone wrenched his hands behind his back, locking them in place with plastic zip-ties that bit into his skin.

Colonel Moran demanded, "Get these fucking cuffs off me!"

For a moment, he heard nothing but the clink of metal and the heavy thump of boots on concrete. Then a soldier said, "We have Moran. Bringing him out for medical. Clear the doorway."

Strong hands gripped John's upper arms and pulled him up to his knees, moving him out of the doorway. A moment later, he saw two soldiers carefully help Colonel Moran out, walking him past a woman with a Major's crown insignia on her uniform and no other identifying patches. Barely glancing at John, she asked, "Holmes?"

"In here, ma'am," a soldier called from inside the room.

John pulled at the zip ties, trying to lean forward enough to see what was happening to Sherlock, but the hand on his shoulder pulled him back. The woman's steps slowed, and she looked John over quickly.

"ID?" she asked, her gaze lifting to the soldier standing behind John.

"Unknown —"

"Captain John Watson," he interrupted, "Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

She looked back down with a sharp, jerky motion. It was too dark to see clearly, but he thought her eyes went wide at the designation. Technically, his regiment didn't exist, but that was the designation they'd used when challenged.

Then she gestured into the room, and the soldier behind John pulled him up to his feet as she called, "I need lights in here!" Then, more quietly, she said, "If you'll give us a moment, Mr. Holmes?" which confused John, because Sherlock was still in the room, looking very much like a cat whose fur had got ruffled the wrong way, as though he were debating which soldier's eyes to scratch out first.

As soon as John was pushed through the doorway, he saw that Sherlock hadn't been cuffed. He was, in fact, still armed, though the small pistol was holstered and no longer in his grasp. Two soldiers were standing next to him, watching him with hawk-like attention.

Disregarding everything but John, Sherlock started across the room, demanding, "Let him go!" One of the soldiers grabbed his arm and pulled him back. Furious, Sherlock rounded him on and snapped, "That uniform is neither an excuse for bullying nor a way for you to hide from your alcoholism. Does your commanding officer know?"

Oh, Christ. Sherlock was going to get them both shot. John wanted to stop him, but he didn't feel like provoking the soldiers' anger, given what had happened last time he'd been helpless in this room. Besides, Sherlock was doing enough provoking for them both, shouting at the soldiers and demanding that John was innocent and should be released immediately, none of which was helping.

So John didn't fight the soldier who took him hard by the arm and pushed him against the wall off to the side, away from Sherlock. With quick little glances, he tried to unobtrusively search for his SIG, but there was no sign of it. Where the hell had it gone? One of the soldiers must have taken it, but none of them were carrying a bag, and they all looked too disciplined to shove an unfamiliar weapon into a pocket or belt.

The major walked in a minute later, followed by a couple of soldiers carrying battery-operated lanterns. They put one down on the floor by the door and the other on the chair where Moran — and John, six weeks earlier — had been cuffed.

"Mr. Holmes," the major said, addressing Sherlock, her voice sharp and professional. She didn't spare John a single glance, looking instead to the bandage taped to Sherlock's arm. It was already saturated with blood in a couple of spots. "Do you need medical attention?"

"I _need _you to release him" — he nodded towards John — "and get your thugs out of here."

The major just sighed, unruffled, as if she'd been expecting that sort of response. She turned on her heel and walked to the doorway, saying, "Notify Mr. Holmes that it's clear."

_'Mr. Holmes' again,_ John thought, throwing Sherlock a puzzled look. If the major wasn't talking about Sherlock, then _who?_

A man entered then, dressed not in urban camo but in a charcoal suit that made John's tailored suits look like cheap polyester. His thinning hair was combed back from a face that would have been handsome if not for the deliberately condescending look of disappointment curling his lip. With every other step, an umbrella tapped the ground at his side.

Something about the sound of the metal tip on the concrete floor made John's blood run cold.

"Leave us," the man ordered, his voice oily-smooth and terribly familiar.

John stared at him, his whole body gone quiet and still as the man's identity sank in. Distantly, he registered the soldiers leaving, but the world had narrowed down to his target — not Colonel Moran, as Sherlock had mistakenly thought, but _this man_.

He might have said, "You." Or perhaps he just growled. He took a step away from the wall, pulling hard against the zip-cuffs.

The man sneered at John. "We do keep meeting this way, Doctor Watson. And here I thought you understood the consequences of disobedience."


	14. Chapter 14

**Monday, 19 April 2010**

Sherlock recognized the chemical euphoria flooding his brain as the effect of morphine — presumably the injection John had given him earlier. Then, he hadn't objected; the pain of the wound had been distracting. Now, though, he felt intolerably sluggish. Whole seconds ticked by, like thick drops of blood falling from a corpse, before he was able to fully read and interpret the body language and unspoken subtext between John and Mycroft.

"_You_ did this," Sherlock said softly, remembering the characteristic trail of spots in the dust — spots that had been left by Mycroft's umbrella.

"Sherlock..." Immediately, Mycroft's expression shifted into a mask of concern. "Go outside, Sherlock. You're wounded. They'll take —"

"You were the one keeping John away from me!" Torn between going to John's side and strangling Mycroft, Sherlock stood frozen in place, fists trembling at his sides as he fought to restrain his anger.

"Sherlock —"

"I hate you," he said, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. "You really can't bear to see me happy."

Mycroft started visibly. He had more experience controlling his expressions than Sherlock did, but this was obviously genuine shock.

"Who is he, Sherlock?" John asked, his voice tight, words clipped — all but Sherlock's name. He never looked away from Mycroft.

"My brother."

John swore under his breath.

Sherlock crouched down by his bloody coat and started patting the pockets to find his multitool. Lockpicks were in the right breast pocket, which meant the multitool was left.

"You're _safe_ now, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "Come with me. He won't follow you, I promise —"

Motion made Sherlock look up to see Mycroft walking towards him. The soldiers hadn't disarmed him; presumably they had recognized him, most likely from photos provided by Mycroft. For once, Mycroft's influence was proving useful. He abandoned his search for the multitool to deliberately put a hand on the gun he still carried. "Come any closer and I _will_ shoot you, Mycroft."

That made it twice in one night that Sherlock had caught Mycroft by surprise. Any other day, he would have been laughing with glee. Now, all he could think about was finding his knife, cutting John free, and getting them both out of here.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, trying for reasonable-elder-brother and only partly succeeding. "Whatever you think is going on between you and" — he gestured in John's direction, watching as Sherlock rose, multitool in hand — "_him,_ I assure you, it's not necessary. You've obviously had a troubled night."

"I should have smothered you when you had pneumonia four years ago. They never would have caught me." Sherlock snapped the knife out and went for John, who never looked away from Mycroft. His whole body was tense, though his respiration was controlled; he was ready for a fight. Ready to attack Mycroft. To kill him bare-handed, if necessary.

With a faintly hurt expression on his face, Mycroft took a step forward, reaching out as though to cross the room and stop Sherlock. "Please, wait outside," Mycroft urged.

"Piss off." Sherlock put his hand on John's arm and said more quietly. "Turn a bit."

John didn't ask what he was doing. He trusted Sherlock; of course he did. He allowed Sherlock to guide him into turning just enough for Sherlock to get at the zip ties on his wrists. Very carefully, Sherlock worked the knife through the one on John's left wrist.

John didn't wait for Sherlock to cut the other zip tie. He let his hands fall to his sides, rolling his shoulders, fingers flexing and clenching into fists. "Thanks," he said softly. "Would you mind introducing us?"

Sherlock gestured at Mycroft with the knife. "He's not important."

Never looking away from Mycroft, John took the multitool from Sherlock's hand and folded the knife blade back into place. "He's your brother."

"A genetic aberration," Sherlock said dismissively. He looked at Mycroft and demanded, "Why are you protecting Moran?"

Mycroft blinked, gaze flicking from John to Sherlock before sliding down to regard the way their shoulders pressed companionably together. "Obviously you're laboring under some terrible misconceptions, Sherlock. When was the last time you slept?"

"What do you care?" Sherlock demanded. He reached for John's hand, clutching tightly at his fingers, and smirked when Mycroft's jaw tightened at the sight.

"Right. We're not doing this," John interrupted. He didn't let go of Sherlock's hand, but he did finally look away from Mycroft, his eyes going to the bandage on Sherlock's arm. "You've been shot, and you —" He looked at Mycroft, faltering for a moment as he struggled to control his anger.

Just as fiercely, Mycroft met John's gaze. "I'm afraid I can't allow you to leave with my brother, _Captain Watson,_" he said, emphasizing John's rank in a way that made John tense with new fury.

Sherlock drew breath to snap at Mycroft, but John's hand tightened as he turned away from Mycroft once more. "He's _really_ your brother," John said quietly. When Sherlock nodded, John said, "And they really were the bloody SIS."

Unable to keep from sneering, Sherlock explained, "He amuses himself by manipulating the British government."

"Sherlock," Mycroft scolded. "I've been very tolerant, but there are limits. I could have you sectioned for what you've done tonight."

Before he could respond, John let go of Sherlock's hand and shoved him back against the wall, moving faster than he had expected. Sherlock never even felt the tug against his belt, but suddenly his gun was in John's hand, extended levelly at Mycroft, and John was in front of Sherlock, shielding him with his own body.

"I wouldn't advise that," John said calmly.

* * *

Mycroft had faced threats more times than he cared to remember, from civilized ultimatums delivered over drinks and hors d'oeuvres to tedious violence involving machine guns and masked terrorists. Never had he imagined death would wear a guise so deceptively harmless despite the all-black clothing and the gun that Sherlock had thought he'd concealed from Mycroft's knowledge.

Six weeks ago, when he'd first laid eyes on John Watson in person, Mycroft's first thought had been that a jury would struggle to convict the man simply because he didn't look the part of a rapist. Now, he looked even less a criminal and every bit the wronged man who was still struggling to do the right thing, for he hadn't pulled the trigger. Unlike Sherlock, Watson had only moved to threats of violence when _Sherlock_ had been threatened.

In the back of his mind, Mycroft heard his mother's voice urging him to reconsider what he knew — what he _thought_ he knew — about Sherlock's state of mind.

"Just shoot him so we can leave," Sherlock said. His right hand pressed against John's shoulder in a way that was both familiar and comfortable, and Mycroft felt the world shift underfoot. Sherlock _loathed_ touch except when he was manipulating someone. Had Mycroft been _that wrong?_ Was it Sherlock, not John Watson, who was in charge of this... whatever was between them?

"Stop helping," John said, never taking his eyes from Mycroft. "You, explain."

Gritting his teeth at being addressed as 'you', Mycroft said, "I believe this is hardly the proper circumstance —"

Something in Watson's dark blue eyes went hard and cold. "Explain quickly, before I take Sherlock's advice just so I can bloody well go back to sleep."

Sherlock let out a choked laugh. His hand tightened on John's shoulder as he relaxed back against the wall.

They were comfortable together. They _really_ were. John's posture wasn't possessive — it was _protective,_ shielding Sherlock from the nonexistent threat of violence at Mycroft's hands.

Mycroft took a step backwards, reassessing everything he'd seen all those weeks ago. Sherlock's body language had been defensive, yes, but out of embarrassment at being caught after a... a _date,_ not shame at having been raped. Which meant everything Mycroft had done — everything Mycroft's soldiers had done, here in this warehouse...

"My God," he whispered.

Sherlock's breath hissed and he pushed away from the wall, watching Mycroft intently, tracing along his thoughts the way he had since they were children. "You thought — I really should kill you," he said, and for the first time ever, the threat in Sherlock's voice was serious.

John turned slightly, though he never looked fully away from Mycroft. "What?"

"It's not that he didn't want me to be happy," Sherlock said. The anger in his voice wasn't enough to hide the raw pain there, something Mycroft hadn't heard since Sherlock's earliest school years, before he'd learned to lock his emotions away and depend instead on logic and rational thought. "He thought you'd hurt me."

"You —" John cut off, the full force of his anger turned on Mycroft again. "You thought I — And you didn't — You didn't even _talk to him?_"

Mycroft took another step back before he could stop himself; stress and lack of sleep were eroding his defenses. "I was waiting for him to talk to me."

John swore quietly under his breath, finally lowering the weapon enough to point it safely at the floor. "Right," he said after a moment. He glanced away but looked back the instant Mycroft shifted his weight. "Here's what we're going to do. _You're_ going to leave, with all of them." He gestured with his free right hand towards the hallway where the soldiers were still waiting.

Mycroft shook his head; if nothing else, there was the matter of Sherlock's kidnapping of Sebastian Moran to investigate. "I can't —"

"Unless you'd like me to tell every bloody newspaper and blogger on the _planet_ how you sent the bloody SIS commandos after me because you're too stupid to recognize a _date,_ then you damned well can!"

Sherlock laughed coldly.

Though it went against every instinct, Mycroft knew when surrender — even temporarily — was his only option. He looked to Sherlock, searching his expression for reassurance to dispel the last shreds of doubt that still lingered, and was dismayed at what he read there. Sherlock was regarding John with pride and... and _affection,_ something Mycroft had never seen on his brother's face.

How could he have let his own biases affect his judgment so badly?

"Is this _really_ what you want, Sherlock?" he finally asked.

"He's mine," Sherlock said without hesitation. A hint of surprise flickered in John's expression, but some of the tension left his posture.

Reluctantly, Mycroft nodded. "At least see our medic first."

"I _have _a doctor."

Resisting the temptation to point out that Watson was hardly a practicing physician, Mycroft nodded again. "I'll see you later today, then," he said, turning and walking for the door, unable to even pretend to bid them a civilized farewell.

"Mycroft," Sherlock called. When he looked back, Sherlock said, "Don't question Moran. Wait for me."

"Question him?" Mycroft turned back, wondering if there was actually a _legitimate _reason Sherlock had decided to kidnap Sebastian Moran tonight.

Smirking, Sherlock asked, "And you're supposed to be the more clever one of us?"

"Sherlock," John said mildly. He still hadn't moved out from in front of Sherlock, as if the threat wouldn't pass until Mycroft had left the room. "Can we not drag this out, please?"

With an irritated huff, Sherlock said, "He's smuggling weapons. He _was_ involved in transporting opiates, might still be. Right under your nose, too."

It was rare that Mycroft had to deal with this many shocks all in one night. "I... see," he said, not asking obvious questions about evidence. Crime was, perhaps, the _only_ thing Sherlock took seriously in his life — until now.

"If _you_ interrogate him, you'll never find out the truth," Sherlock warned. "I'll do it."

"You never _offer _to help."

Sherlock smiled viciously. "I enjoy having you owe me, for a change — even more than you already owe _us,_ for all this," he added, clearly including John in that statement.

Stung, Mycroft considered ignoring Sherlock's not-at-all-altruistic offer. He could arrange for Moran to disappear. He could break the man, learn every secret he'd already had, but that would require weeks and paperwork and the risk of losing whatever organization Moran had built. And that was before even considering Moran's security clearance.

But more to the point, this was a way for him to concede gracefully. "Very well. I'll let the visitor's desk know that you'll be stopping by."

"With John."

Mycroft couldn't quite hide his flinch, but he nodded, meeting John's cool glare for a moment. "Naturally," he said, and retreated as quickly as dignity would permit.

Once he was in the hallway, Major Sonde fell in at his side, lighting his path with her torch. "I heard, sir," she said unapologetically as they started towards the building exit. Of course she would've been listening in, waiting for Mycroft's signal, just in case she needed to sweep in and save the day. "I've ordered a security detail to stay with Colonel Moran. Shall I have them take him into formal custody?"

"No. But do have them confine him to one of the interrogation rooms. Tell him..." He paused, considering. Sherlock was most likely correct, but Mycroft preferred to hedge his bets. "Tell him this is a matter of the highest security, and we request his cooperation. Hopefully he'll come willingly. And Major... No records."

"Yes, sir," she said firmly. "No records."

* * *

As soon as Mycroft was gone, Sherlock leaned back against the wall, making no effort to stop his laughter. He knew part of it was the morphine, but most was simply the fact that he'd beaten Mycroft, something that almost _never_ happened.

Then, as John turned and the motion caused Sherlock's fingers to trail across his body to his other shoulder, he reconsidered. Most of his happiness was because he had John back. In comparison, Mycroft was barely a footnote.

John was staring at him, anger and shock draining away to a sort of wondrous amusement. "You're absolutely bloody mad," he said with a little snort of laughter.

Sherlock grinned at him, ignoring the dull, distant ache in his left arm as he lifted his hands to touch John's face, brushing his fingers through short hair, feeling the lines at the corners of his eyes and the texture of his skin. "Who cares? It worked. You're back and you're safe."

"You have a _very_ warped perception of 'safe'," John said, looking down at the gun he still held. He dropped the magazine and pulled back the slide, catching the bullet as it was ejected. Then he put all the pieces of the weapon into his coat pocket, freeing his hands. "Have you got a proper first aid kit?"

"At home."

"Fine." He looked back around the room and asked, "I don't suppose there's a way to get my gun back, is there?"

Sherlock smiled and gestured over at his coat, still heaped in the corner. "It's in my coat pocket. I hid it for you."

John's smile was full of surprised delight. "You do realize there's _nothing_ legal about anything that's happened tonight, don't you?"

"So? Laws are —"

"If you say 'boring', I'll walk out right this instant," John threatened, though Sherlock knew he was lying by the way he grinned. Reluctantly, John stepped away from Sherlock and went for the coat on the floor. "How did you manage to get shot, anyway?"

"Moran grabbed the gun as I was cuffing him to the chair."

John sighed, searching the coat for his gun. "You're _never_ to do anything like this again, Sherlock. I don't care why. There's no reason good enough for you to risk yourself this way."

"It was only a matter of time before he came after you directly. He'd already threatened you," he said, watching as John holstered the gun at his back. "Why are you wearing that for a right-hand draw? You're left-handed."

John gave him a curious look and didn't answer. "Why would he come after me? He was my commanding officer," he said. Then he frowned and asked, "What you said about him — the drugs and weapons — was that true?"

"Of course." Sherlock studied John's confused expression. "I thought he was the one who threatened you."

Shaking his head, John held out his coat for him. "Put this on. It's freezing in here," he said absently. As Sherlock got his arms into the sleeves, John continued more softly, "I went to him for help figuring out who did all this to me. Christ, I never even _imagined_ he was into anything illegal."

Sherlock looked back over his shoulder at the disgust in John's voice. "You didn't?" he asked, wondering if John was lying to him. Did John think he had to act normal for Sherlock's sake? True, most people wouldn't approve of dating a criminal, but laws didn't matter to Sherlock. John was _interesting_.

"God, no," John said immediately. "Otherwise, I would never have asked for his help. As it was, I was worried about what I'd owe him, but I figured it would be work-related. Um, _my_ work, I mean." He settled the coat on Sherlock's shoulders, asking, "That all right? Your arm doesn't hurt, does it?"

"It's fine," he answered distantly, allowing John to turn him around and start doing up the buttons. What had John meant with his 'God, no'? Had he really not realized Moran was currently into arms dealing, building on past knowledge gained as a drugs exporter?

Judging by John's tone of voice, he _disapproved_. And the only 'work' John was referencing at all was what he did with Irene Adler and had nothing at all to do with any wide-scale criminal enterprise.

Was _Sherlock_ wrong, too, just as Mycroft had been?

But then... Moriarty's name had been mentioned not once but twice — first in association with the cabbie behind the serial suicides, and then again by Wilkes, in connection with money laundering. So what was John doing with him?

"Who's Moriarty?" he asked bluntly.

John looked up with a guilty flinch. "What? God," he said, shaking his head and looking back down as if seeking a diversion. His body language was all but screaming his sudden discomfort. "He's... a friend. I mean, a bit more, I suppose, but just... it wasn't serious. I'm not even sure it would've continued, even if not..." He trailed off infuriatingly, gesturing at Sherlock in a way that probably would mean something to other people.

"'Even if not' what?" Sherlock pressed, scrambling to try and figure out where he'd gone wrong and what the truth might be.

Instead of answering, John took a deep breath. He tugged the back of his jacket down over his SIG and held out a hand to Sherlock, saying, "Let's get out of here."

Sherlock took his hand, and a warm, glowing feeling filled his chest as John's fingers laced with his. It felt _right_. "I know you're having sex with him."

John flinched again, though he didn't pull his hand away. "Christ," he muttered. "Let's just be blunt about it, shall we?"

"It doesn't matter."

"In any case, it's over. He's... Well, I don't think he's who I thought he was." As they walked out into the hallway, John let out a surprisingly bitter laugh. "How the hell did this happen to me? I'm surrounded by bloody criminals — all but you," he said warmly, glancing at Sherlock, though he probably couldn't see much in the dim light coming from the lanterns abandoned in the room.

Sherlock looked at him for a full second — an eternity for most people — and considered _everything_ he knew about John, all the way back to that very first night —

"Oh," he breathed, his hand clenching tight around John's as he realized there _was_ another possibility. John's intervention, the night he'd shot the cabbie behind the serial suicides, had _saved Katherine's life,_ which was very much in character for him — much more so, in fact, than the thought that John was eliminating an unruly criminal from his organization. And that meant _Moriarty_ had been behind it all, not John.

He waited for his perception of John to change, for John to fade back into obscurity, because criminals were much more interesting than everyone else, but... it didn't happen. _Moriarty_ was interesting — of course he was, now that Sherlock knew Moriarty was the one behind those fascinating not-suicides and the money laundering and the other hints at criminal enterprises Sherlock had picked up during his investigation. But somehow, John still kept his place in Sherlock's thoughts, ahead of all the others, even though he was... ordinary.

"But you're not," he said quietly, turning to look at John. He didn't need light to see his face; every detail was etched into his memory. He could hear the tiredness and adrenaline crash in the pattern of John's breathing. He could feel John's protectiveness in the way he still held tightly to Sherlock's hand as though ready to pull him out of harm's way.

"Not what? Sherlock, are you all right?" he asked worriedly.

"Two of them," Sherlock said, grinning. Somewhere beyond the morphine, it hurt for him to lift his left hand, but he didn't care — not when he needed to touch John's face again. He was unaccountably nervous all of a sudden. He wanted to kiss John but suddenly wondered if John would allow it. He no longer had a reference for their relationship. He hadn't saved John from a rival criminal. He'd _completely_ misunderstood him, and indirectly as it had been, it was Sherlock's fault that Mycroft had so badly hurt him, and now he'd involved John with not one but two dangerous, powerful criminals —

John's touch, fingertips brushing Sherlock's cheek, mirrored his own. "Sherlock," he said steadily. "What's wrong?"

There was only one way to fix this. John had, because of his association with Sherlock, made himself a target. Six weeks ago, John had acted to protect his loved ones. Now, Sherlock had to protect John.

"We have to stop him," Sherlock said quietly, pressing into John's touch.

"Who?"

"Moriarty."

* * *

And now we come to the end of another book in the If You Were 'verse. Thank you for sticking it all out!

I'm sad to announce that The_Kinky_Pet has left the project. Between travels and school, she doesn't have the time to dedicate to it. I'm grateful for all of her help, from her earliest beta feedback to her immense help with Bridge.

Mitaya and I both look forward to the sequel, If You Were Loyal, in which John and Sherlock set out on their new life together. It's anything but boring, and because it's them, it's anything but safe.


End file.
